Base Elements
by limber
Summary: Post-Season 6: Two years on, a reluctant Spike is drawn back to Sunnydale with a mysteriously ill Dawn. There's quite a bit of setup, though, so be patient. Eventually S/B, but very plot/character-driven. Reviews welcome!
1. Snowglobe

Disclaimer:  Whedon and ME own characters, universe, etc.  The only thing that's not theirs is possibly New Hampshire.

Author: limber, who enjoys the beach in winter, apple orchards, BritFlicks and feedback.

Updates: at LEAST one a week, often more frequently than that.

If you'd like to take this story somewhere else, please email me.  I don't mind going into others' archives, but I DO mind having stuff hijacked.  If someone happens to see this fic (altered or intact) under any name other than mine, let me know and I'll take care of it.

-- Base Elements –

It gets pretty cold in winter.

_Not as stupid as it sounds, thought Dawn.  She stared out the window of her dorm room at the sleeting rain and let out a heavy sigh.  No way you'd find this kind of weather in Sunnydale, not in April.  The slushy rain that pelted a fresh layer of snow on the ground felt like a personal affront. "It's APRIL!  SPRING!" she groaned, thumping her forehead against the glass.  "What is WRONG with this town?!"_

"Town?  Try state!  Actually, region… I hear it's snowing straight through to Rhode Island."  Dawn's roommate Alicia stumbled into the room looking like a marshmallow; her arms stuck out at perpendicular angles from her quilted jacket, her mittens glowing redly.  She'd wound a pastel scarf around her face and Dawn could just barely see a pair of bright green eyes peering out from underneath a rainbow hat.  

"Alicia, you look like you're about to rob a…" she hesitated as Alicia began to peel off the winter layers, revealing more and more vibrant-colored clothing.  "Actually, you look like you've _already mugged Rainbow Brite."  _

"Hey, the tart was asking for it, hoggin' all the colors," Alicia shrugged, hanging up her jacket.  "Besides, I thought the day needed a little more zing in it.  Not that you're helping the scenery, Miss I-love-my-gray-sweats… We're going to need some cheer in this place, you know.  Have you seen the weather report for the next few days?  Rain, rain, snow and RAIN!"  She leaped onto her bed, folding her long frame into a knot and pulling the covers up around her shoulders.  Her dark hair steamed slightly in the warm room, and Dawn thought again of how different Alicia was from her friends back home.  Where the Sunnydale girls had been obsessed with clothes, hair, nails, the politics of pecking orders, Alicia valued a completely different set of rules.  

In a way, Alicia reminded Dawn of Willow… well, she amended hastily, Alicia reminded her of the way Willow used to be.  A self-confident, glad-to-be-geeky, non-Wiccan-lesbian Willow. Not Willow now.  No.  Dawn shuddered slightly.

"Argh.  Sorry, I brought the cold in, didn't I?" Alicia winced in sympathy, misreading Dawn's shiver.  

Dawn half-smiled at her.  "I swear, next term?  _I get the side of the room with the radiator."_

"Ah, you'll have to fight me for it… c'mere, room enough for two." Alicia threw back the pile of quilts she had pulled up to her neck.  "C'mon, it's conference time. Step into my office."  Dawn jumped up from the windowsill and onto the space Alicia thumped on the mattress, giggling with her friend as they scrunched up against the headboard together.  "Twizzlers on the desk, and two recently-refrigerated Cokes in my bag," Alicia directed from her position against the wall.  Within moments, the two girls were happily sipping their sodas through Twizzlers, watching the rain go streaking by the window.

"I still can't believe you'd never seen sleet before," muttered Alicia.  "Barbie."

"Ha!  You people are like the Eskimos, you've got so many words for snow!  Rain and snow that fall simultaneously?  Who knew?" Dawn snorted, chewing at her straw.  "In California?  You look outside, say 'Hey, yuck, wet,' and then stay inside until it gets all sunshiny again."

"Good thing we broke you of that habit, you wouldn't have left the dorm after November."  Alicia's teeth were turning pink from the Twizzler, and she grinned at Dawn widely.  "You might have starved – naw, actually, I'd've sled-dogged food to you from the dining hall."

"Aww – so kind," Dawn laughed.

"Hey, I do what I can.  And I think the dog's'd be kinda fun.  But seriously?  Never, EVER go to England.  My Dad says it's wicked rainy over there like, all the time.  Why he moved here, to my mother's great benefit."  Dawn waited for the inevitable question, and sure enough:  "Hey, your sister ever hear from that British guy?"

Only Alicia knew about Spike.  Not _all about Spike, rather obviously, but enough to ask about him.  "No, no word.  But I told you, I don't think she's going to.  It's been a couple of years now; if he's not gotten to us yet…" she trailed off, suddenly thinking about her word choice.  If he hadn't gotten to them.  Would Buffy even have told her if he had come back, or if he'd tried to hurt someone?  It would be just like her sister to try and cover that up.  Let Dawn think that Spike was still off, adventuring, immortal, when he'd actually been dust in the corner of the crypt for months.  Damn.  "No," she replied decisively, shaking her head, "Buffy hasn't heard anything."_

Alicia let the topic slide, as she did every time Spike came up.  The girl from Boston might seem brash, but she also knew when to let a conversation go.  That's part of what Dawn liked so much about Alicia – she let Dawn talk when she needed to, but never pushed.  Very different from home.  With Buffy, it was all or nothing – either she'd not have the time to talk to Dawn about really important things, or she'd suddenly get all psychotic and demand to get the scoop on all of Dawn's private life.  Like living with a very strong and persistent manic-depressive.  _Hmmm… wonder if Buffy ever got tested for that?_

"You know what?" Alicia suddenly sat up in the bed, jostling Dawn slightly.  "We should go out tonight."  Dawn looked at her, raising an eyebrow.  "Well, yes, we _are in the middle of nowhere, but hey!  Cow-tipping?" _

"Oh, you're kidding!" Dawn shrieked.  

"Yeah, I am.  It's too cold out, they're all in the barn.  But just you wait until spring term, missy," she threatened.  "Nah, I thought we could take the bus into town, go see a movie?  One of the old ones they're playing at the Empire, 'Citizen Kane' or something." Dawn nodded too enthusiastically while draining the dregs of her Coke, sputtering as the froth filled her mouth.  "Easy there, tiger!"

"Gah."  Dawn rattled the last chunk of Twizzler in her can, then gave it up for lost.  "Hey, do you think that we could ask those guys down the hall?"  She looked at her hands, embarrassed.  "I mean, they probably won't want to come, but Sean's pretty cool and I think Brian would be up for anything.  We can ask the usual gang, too, but I don't think Sean's been outside for weeks."

"Sure!" breezed Alicia, but she leaped out of bed to shut the door before continuing.  "Actually, newsflash.  Brian?  Dating Christopher in Gilford Hall."

"No way!" 

"_Yes way, Ted!  As of three days ago." _

"Whoa… actually, wait.  Makes sense.  Oh, and you humble me with your eighties Keanu humor, Lise."

"What can I say?" Alicia shrugged.  "The man's a god."

"Oh, I'm not sure I can take another round of 'Why We Should All Worship Keanu'." Dawn crushed a pillow around her head, but it wasn't dense enough to block out Alicia's shouts.

"I could always go on about the New Kids on the Block!  OOOOOH, JOEY!  YOU'RE SO DREAMYYYYYYYYY!  And Danny and Donnie and Jordan…."  

Dawn could hear thumping vibrating through the wooden bedframe and she squeezed her eyes shut, taking the pillow away from her ears to yell, "I can tell you're doing the dance moves!  I give up!  Surrender!  Look, white flag!"  She squinted at Alicia who, sure enough, was doing her patented "Right Stuff" dance moves.  "Augh!"

Alicia stopped mid-kick.  "You know?  I think I'm on a sugar high."

"Gee, ya think?"  Dawn winced.  "I can't believe I'm saying this, but you missed a New Kid."

"Which one?"

"Jon?  Jordan's brother, one of the Knights, I think."

"Oh, yeah!  Hell!  I forgot Jon!"  Alicia clapped a hand to her forehead dramatically.  "I am a bad fan."

"Given that you're a fan of NKOTB, I'd not call you bad.  Sick, maybe.  Besides, considering it all happened ten years ago, I'm pretty sure you can blame your forgetfulness on old age."  Dawn barely ducked in time to avoid the pillow whizzing at her head.

"Hag," Alicia smirked good-naturedly, then turned serious.  "So, am I decent to ask boys to a movie?  Will they be ashamed to be seen with me?"  She skidded over to the mirror.  "Oh my god, look at my mouth!"  She turned back to Dawn and bared her teeth again, framed by shocking Twizzler-red lips.  "Lemme see yours," she commanded, and Dawn snarled back.  "Yeah, you're just as bad as me."  She turned back to the mirror, admiring the cherry hue of her grin.  "We look like vampires!  Bwaaa, boys, here I come!  Mwaa aa aaaah!"

Dawn stared at Alicia as she rocketed out the door, already on a mission to round up a movie-going posse.  She slowly walked over to their bureau, the fuzzy purple carpet snagging gently at her toes.  Keeping her grounded.  Here, there was no otherworldly danger.  No vamp or demon or god just around the corner, waiting for you to leave your friends and take that long lonely walk to the dorm's gated entrance.  Dawn lifted her shirt a little, traced the scars around her ribs.  Faint, silvery lines from a more deadly life.  New Hampshire didn't have things that went bump in the night.  Though sometimes they mooed.

Since Buffy sent her to prep school in New England in the autumn, Dawn had led a different life.  Buffy proclaimed that she wasn't to tell anyone about "the darker side of Sunnydale", and Dawn eventually agreed.  Reluctantly, though; Buffy's friends knew, and Dawn was pretty sure that it made life easier for Buffy to be able to talk about it.  But her sister had made a decision.  That was that.  Dawn was packed off to prep school in late August with the instructions to call every day, to stay away from cemeteries in general, and to have a good time.  But most of all?  _Forget Sunnydale ever existed, Dawn thought.  Buffy hadn't exactly said it, but she didn't have to.  Dawn understood._

She brushed her shoulder-length hair back, letting the layers swish back across her face.  The long hair had been left in Sunnydale too, and the extra two and a half inches she'd put on since summer would be a surprise to Buffy when she saw her in a few more weeks.  Dawn rummaged around in her jewelry box and pulled out a hemp choker.  A mass of pebble-sized crystals were wedged into the weave, giving her whole outfit a tribal air.  Another Sunnydale relic, but a good one.  She clipped it around her neck firmly and reached out for her heavy woolen peacoat.

Alicia and all of her friends would never know what Dawn's sister did.  They'd never know how many times their world had been saved, pulled back when it was teetering on the brink.  This was the world that Buffy had fought for, a completely different world from Sunnydale and its weirdness.  In Sunnydale, Dawn was never normal. She was a target or an enigma or some dumb little kid. Here?  She was just another one of the crew.  A normal, home-grown American girl, who ate enough candy to put her into a coma and affected a horribly fake Transylvanian accent to play at being deadly.  

"Yeah – just like vampires.  Bwa ah ah."  Dawn smiled candy-pink at her reflection and laughed.

TBC 

(Feedback always welcome)


	2. An Ordinary Life

*

"Well, THAT was interesting…" Sean muttered, squinting at the bright lights of the multiplex lobby.  The rest of the group trouped out behind him, most with similarly dazed expressions on their faces.  Kirsten looked a little ill, and Dawn was practically twitching in irritation.

"How could she do that?  HOW could she let herself get into that situation?" she spat, spinning around to stare at the boys who were nonchalantly leaning against the snack bar.

"How what?" Brian asked, already snapped out of the movie's thrall and studying the Coming Attractions posters.  

"Well, first she gets herself trapped, and then she passes by all kinds of weapons as she screams through the house!  Because, you know, monsters NEVER go to where all the girly screaming is…" Dawn grumped.  

"Like monster Lo-Jack – lost your victim?  Oh, there she is!  Aaaaargh ummm mung slurp," Alicia snarled, pretending to chew on Kirsten's arm.  Kirsten laughed and slapped at her.

"Dawn, it's just a movie.  A suspense movie."  Eileen's tone was condescending, as usual, and Dawn wondered again why the hell they invited her in the first place.  Oh, yeah – we didn't.

Eileen leaned forward a little, eyes wide, and began to speak in her kindergarten-teacher-voice.  "Dawnie, to make the movie suspenseful, they have to make the main character really, really scared.  And that means that they have to put her in scaaaaary situations."  More sarcastic than usual, actually, Dawn thought.  Eileen's eyes briefly flickered over to Sean, and Dawn groaned inwardly.  So that's how we're going to play it, she thought bitterly.  Sean raised his eyebrows a little at Eileen's sharpness and looked back to Dawn.

"Thank you, scarcastibitch," Alicia whispered next to her.  Then louder, "Seriously, why WOULD you go into an abandoned antique store when being chased by something?  I understood hiding in the locker; I got when she ran to her boyfriend's house; but fleeing to an old, empty store clogged with things that scare the hell out of me when it's full daylight?"  She turned to Brian.  "Did you see those cat-clocks lining the walls, the ones with the glowing, moving eyes and tails?  Those freak me out, man.  One time at my grandma's…"

"And I'm sure you'd have a better idea," Eileen interrupted sweetly.  She was looking at Dawn, apparently her chosen target for the night.  Oh, fantastic.  Alicia nudged her supportively, and Dawn snorted.

"Duh.  Anyone would."

"Enlighten us," Rachel chirped, mimicking Eileen's pose unconsciously.  Such a stooge.

"All right."  She walked over to the snack bar and rested one elbow on the counter.  Sean turned to face her, and Dawn could see Eileen's face flush red over his shoulder.  She smiled, and spoke directly to Sean.

"I'm going to cut right to the part where she's in the antique store, because we all know that it was a stupid idea to go in there in the first place, right?"  Sean nodded.  "Good.  So, she runs in the door and then leaves it gaping open.  Never do that.  Doors make noises when they open, and you'll need that.  Monsters can be damn quiet when they want to, you'll need all of the warning signals you can put together.  In fact, throwing stuff in its path is good, if it's on your tail."  She took a breath, considering.  

"The next thing you need is a weapon.  Now, first go for something that can wound long-range, like a crossbow or a pike or something.  There were a couple of fire pokers in there as well.  Barring that, go for something sharp, anything sharp.  I mean," she backtracked a little, "if you know what defeats the bastard, obviously, use it.  Crosses, stakes, silver bullets, whatever.  But we had no clue what the movie-monster was, so we're going with the general slayage here."  Sean was grinning a little wider, and Dawn began to wrap up.  

"I'll guess the girl had no hand-to-hand skills, from all the tripping and the running into walls.  She did that a lot, I'd think seriously about brain damage… and that'd explain the mindless antique-store choice, actually… but at the very least, she could have shattered one of the chairs.  A chair leg makes a damn fine club, and even shards of wood can be really painful when you're poked with them.  And you want depth here, not cutting," she warned.  "Someone can bleed a lot, but if the cuts are shallow, they'll still live.  Shallow cuts are no good."  No good at all.  She was momentarily distracted, and fought to keep her focus.

"You need to do maximum damage in very little time, using what you've got handy.  The stuff my sister comes up with…" She stopped conspicuously; the sudden silence was awkward.

"Because your sister does Do-It-Yourself weaponry all the time, right?"  Eileen coolly interjected.

"She's… trained." Dawn had begun to stammer a bit, convulsively swallowing her words.  "She's g-good with the de-defense."  Oh, hell.

"And you," Eileen purred.  "I'm so sure that you keep a cool head every time you get approached by something nasty and creepy-looking."  She looked pointedly at Alicia.  "I could use some tips on that, if you're handing them out."

"And that, my friends, was another lesson from Eileen Davidson on how to insult friends and alienate people!"  Alicia crowed jovially, sweeping an arm towards Eileen like a gameshow host.  "How do you do it, Eileen? You've stunned us tonight with your wit and charm, and we can only hope and PRAY that your parting gift comes to you in the shape of a speeding bus."  Eileen paled and narrowed her eyes, but Alicia was already moving on.  She slung her arms around Dawn and Kirsten's shoulders, smiling sweetly at the three boys.  "Boys, you know what I'm about to say, right?"

"Women's bathroom in traditional pack formation, right?" Sean rolled his eyes.

"I still don't get that," Christopher murmured as the three girls marched away, leaving Eileen and Rachel to retreat to the bathrooms in the east wing of the multiplex.

"Some mysteries are better left to gentler sex," Brian intoned wisely.  Then he reconsidered.  "Actually, after what just went down?  Screw the gentler sex crap.  Eileen and Alicia could probably rip us all new ones with words alone, and Dawn?"  He raised an eyebrow.  "I think Dawn could take me."

"Hands off," smiled Sean. "If she's gonna take anyone, I'm first in line."  

"Well, that was refreshing!" Alicia said brightly as they joined the tail end of the bathroom line.  She was still a little pink from her verbal battle with Eileen, an ongoing war that she enjoyed immensely.  "I think I won that round, how about you?"

"Oh, yeah, that one went to you.  So what's this make the score?  Sarcastibitch 165, Defender of All that is Good and Righteous…."

"…and puppies…"

"…and Puppies, 209."  Kirsten squinted into the mirror.  "D'you think that she'll talk to her kids like that?"

"With The Voice?  Only if she wants to be the proud mother of the world's youngest delinquents.  And only if she's capable of reproducing asexually, as I sure don't know anyone who'd get it on with her."  Alicia suddenly noticed that Dawn was silent.  "Dawn… you okay?"

Dawn scowled at her feet.  "I froze.  I just FROZE out there…"

"Yeah, but with a little teamwork…"

"NO," Dawn spoke forcefully, her stomach constricting.  "I shouldn't have to rely on you to get me out of these things.  I should be able to do it on my own."

Kirsten looked away; Alicia just looked upset.  "I – I'm sorry, Dawn.  I didn't think that you would – I just…"  She trailed off, unsure of what to say.  She looked embarrassed, which made Dawn realize how harsh she'd sounded.  Oops.

Dawn shook her head.  "No, it's not you, it's from before."  Kirsten and Alicia just seemed confused.  Dawn tried to explain.  "Back home, everyone has this thing about protecting me – it's probably because of my Mom and being the youngest and stuff, but there's these other things, too…" She petered out.  "I just get irritated now, when I think someone's trying to shield me.  It's irrational, and I'm way oversensitive about it."  She smiled weakly.  "Don't worry, I'll grow out of it, I'm just being a jerk.  Sorry, Lise."

"No, s'okay." Alicia shrugged self-consciously.  "Call me on it if you need to.  Katie and Erin say that I do it to them, too.  I just thought they were being whiny little sisters."  She laughed quietly.  "Firstborn thing, I guess, always bossy.  And obnoxious and loud."

Dawn felt terrible.  She grabbed Alicia's shoulder and turned her around.  "No, Lise, it's really not you.  Is it, Kirsten?  I'm the one who wigged, right?"  Kirsten bit her lip, but nodded.

"Yeah – Alicia, don't worry about it.  Dawn's just feeling…." She looked to Dawn for the word.

"Mental." Dawn supplied.  "I'm feeling mental.  I AM mental."  Alicia smiled a bit at that.   "Look, I'm going to head outside, get some air.  NOT because of you," she punched Alicia lightly on the shoulder.  "I just need to rip Eileen into little bitty pieces in my head for a bit, then I'll be completely fine and ready to stay up late watching Molly Ringwald movies and eating popcorn."

Alicia's mouth hitched up a little at the corner.  "Going for my eighties weakness… cheap shot, Summers."

"Nah," Kirsten laughed.  "If she was really playing dirty, she'd've mentioned 'FAME'."

"Too true," admitted Dawn.  "I'm saving that one for when I do something really bad, like kill her goldfish."  

"You got plans?" Alicia asked, feigning shock.  But everyone was smiling, and all was right with the world again.  

"Joaquim is safe… for now…"  Dawn tried her best to look devious and slunk out the door, shooting looks over her shoulder at her girls.

Outside, the boys had disappeared.  Probably over in the arcade,  she guessed.  What is it with boys and video games?  Eileen was glowering over by the pick-and-mix, so at least she hadn't latched onto Sean while Dawn was having her mental breakdown.  Thank heaven for small mercies.  Dawn was leaning against the tiled wall and trying to think of all the truly excellent comebacks she should've used on Eileen when a familiar profile caught her eye.

WHAT?!?!

No, it couldn't be.  She jerked away from the wall violently, eyes glued to the dark-haired man striding across the lobby.  Away from her, she suddenly realized, and immediately began to trot around the perimeter to get a better look at his face.  She'd only seen it for a moment, but she could swear…. She cursed as a Tim Allen cutout blocked her path, and tried to dart around it.  But the cutout wasn't alone; it was Tim Allen and a bunch of cutout… children?  Midgets?  A freaking FLOOR display of waist-height prop-ups. She tried to size up which one would be easiest to vault over. Damn you, little people!  

"Uh, ma'am, the theatre requests that you don't touch the floor displays," a redheadeded teenager warbled, nervously holding a scrawny arm between Dawn and Tim Allen.  Dawn realized her behavior had drawn the attention of quite a group of people, mostly kids and parents coming out of the Disney screening.  "Theatre security, ma'am."  He thrust a plastic badge in her face.  WILLIAM: SECURITY.  Dawn desperately watched the dark man approach the doors and suddenly didn't care how bizarre she looked.

"SPIKE!"  

The man froze and started to turn, but William: Security had decided to spring into action, clumsily pulling Dawn away from her vantage point.  The Disney crowds swallowed up the lone figure; Dawn called Spike's name again, now very panicked, and abruptly slipped out of William's inexpert grasp.  She darted around a ticket stand and began to run in the direction of the doors, unable to see Spike but certain he was there.  Don't you dare slip away now, please don't leave me, please don't...

Then she was steps from the door, and there he was.  He'd stopped dying his hair; it was mussed the way she remembered, though.  His jacket was still leather, but shorter, definitely different.  It looked like he had some kind of sweater on underneath – but black still, definitely black.  And his face.  Of course, his face was the same, endlessly angular and young, blue eyes staring at her in shock.

"Nib… Dawn?"  He breathed incredulously, staring at her as though she might be an illusion, she might not be real.  He stepped back from her a pace, and Dawn's resolve shattered.

It was as though something inside of her had unwound or snapped, and she suddenly couldn't see for tears.  Sobs began to choke her; she wandered forward blindly, arms outstretched, terrified that he'd vanish while her eyes were filled.  "Spike, no!  Wait!" She could feel the words jumble up before they left her tongue, which only made her cry more.  "Don't leave!"  For a few frantic moments she clawed the air blindly, desperation overriding every other emotion.  A strangled sob ripped through her as sensed the glass of the sliding doors under her fingers.  She was too late!  Too late….

And then she was enveloped by the familiar smell of cigarettes and old leather, fine-fingered hands smoothing back her hair.  An arm held her up as her legs gave out, and she buried her head in his neck, wound her arms around him tightly and gasped silently into his shoulder, too relieved and emotional to control her reactions.  She just focused on the voice that murmured in her ear over and over.

"It's all right, Nibblet. Shhhhhhhh, now.  I'm here, love, I'm here now. I'm here."

TBC


	3. Little White Lies

*

"Right, nibblet, come on over here."  Dawn let Spike guide her away from the main doors, clutching tightly to his arm with both hands.  She crimped the leather jacket in the crook of his elbow reflexively, twisting the material in anxious fingers.  Leather meant Spike, and she wasn't about to let him slip away.

"Dawn," Spike murmured, glancing warily around the lobby at the sea of curious faces turned their way.  "What's wrong?  Is something going on?"  His posture was familiar, Dawn realized.  He'd put himself between her and the crowd, the arm she clung to was also positioned to sweep her behind him.  He was taut and tense beside her, crackling with energy.  Despite her earlier tantrum about over-protective friends, Dawn flushed happily.  It meant that he still cared.

"Of COURSE something's going on!" she laughed, embarrassed, scrubbing at her eyes with the back of her sleeve.  "Where the hell have you been?"  

Spike's attitude changed completely as the threat changed from external to internal.  Looking slightly abashed, he ran a hand through his hair and glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.  "Later, pet, eh?"  He suddenly sized her up again.  "Hold on – who said you could grow?"

"New Hampshire?" Dawn shrugged.  "I have this theory about the energies of the…" she gave her head an unconscious shake, "…of where I grew up.  I think it vibes people into staying short."

Spike noticed the censored statement, but let it pass. "Well, you tower over big sis, no question.  Unless she's gotten a boost as well, or is she just striving for higher and higher heels?"  He twitched a little, and Dawn anticipated the question.

"No, she's not here.  She's there."  Still.  On the other end of the phone, sounding forcefully cheerful - except for the stony silences that answered every taboo query.

"Yeah."  Dawn couldn't tell if Spike was disappointed or relieved.  He leaned against the wall with his cigarette packet in his hand, tapping it absently against his thigh.  She leaned next to him, close enough the feel the thudding vibrations running up his arm.  Fidgety as always.  He seemed a little distant, especially for Spike – he usually broadcast his emotions, and the sensation that he was holding back?  Bizarre.  She was so busy watching him that she jumped a little when he suddenly spoke.

"As I remember, Bit, you weren't exactly happy to see me last time we met."  He didn't look at her as he said it, but his voice was low and strained.  He stared straight ahead, and Dawn suddenly realized he was nervous.  And ashamed.  

"Well, I didn't know that I wouldn't see you again," Dawn replied, watching his face closely.  He sighed and tipped his head towards her.

"Sorry 'bout that."

"Yeah."  

"I wasn't…"

"Oh, THERE you are!"  Alicia appeared from out of nowhere, the rest of Dawn's friends on her heels.  "We're gonna go…. Oh!"  Spike had pushed away from the wall and become extremely noticeable.  Even without the duster and Billy Idol hair, his appearance was remarkable.  Blue eyes examined the gang of kids piercingly for one quick moment before relaxing and nonchalantly looking away.  Alicia's eyes widened as she took him in, and then she turned to Dawn.

"Spike?" she mouthed widely. Spike caught the gesture and started a bit in surprise, and Dawn hurried to make introductions.

"Uh, yeah!  Spike?  This is Alicia, she's my roommate at the dorm," she rattled off, ignoring Spike's lifted eyebrow at the mention of a dorm.  "And these are Brian, Kirsten, Sean, and Christopher.  Oh," she added, noticing two girls standing a couple feet away, "Rachel and Eileen.  Over there.  Behind the pillar."  Hah.

Spike smiled charmingly, winking at Alicia quickly before extending his hand.  "I'm Spike."  He offered no other explanation, but the kids didn't notice the omission, too fascinated by his appearance to ask.  

"New generation of Scoobs?" he asked Dawn under his breath as he stepped back to her side.  She shook her head sharply, and he nodded.  None of the Hellmouthy talk, then.  Interesting again.

Dawn suddenly realized that he was waiting for a cue to work from, and began talking quickly.  "Spike's a friend of my family… well, of me, anyhow.  And my mom liked him a lot.  And he helped me out when things got kind of rough."

"After she died?"  Kirsten said gently.  

"Yeah."  Both 'she's, really, but the second death had been the biggie… Now that she'd gotten herself into this discussion, Dawn wasn't quite sure how to extricate herself gracefully.  There'd be no way to explain that he'd lived with her, bought her pizza, taught her all about punk rock, and put her safety above everything else.  She opened her mouth, but no sound came out, her mind too jumbled to form words.

She's floundering, thought Spike, and he changed the subject adroitly.  "What movie were you lot at?"  He tugged at Dawn's hair, drawing her attention, drawing everyone's attention.  Good.  "Somehow I don't see you all tramping in to see a Disney on a Friday night."  Time to play big brother, it seems.

"Well, we were SUPPOSED to be going to see 'Citizen Kane' at the Empire in town, but it turns out they're on a Fred'n'Ginger kick right now."  Christopher shot a disgusted look at Alicia, who shrugged.

"Sorry!  I can't help it if the Daughters of the American Revolution petitioned for a change… the little old ladies have spoken."  Alicia turned to back to Spike and pointed at one of the posters.  "We went to that one, with the big shadow that's supposed to be a monster?  But you never really SEE the monster, so don't go thinking you'll get some great makeup effects," she confided.

"Really?"  Smirking encouragingly, playing up his new role.

"Screaming, running, lots of dark sets and bad things that only happen when it's dark outside," supplied Sean, eager to get in on the conversation.  "It was pretty mediocre, but had some pretty good scare moments."

"And you enjoyed that?"  Spike lifted an eyebrow at Dawn slightly.

"Oh, she's an expert," a scornful voice drawled. Eileen had sauntered closer as the conversation went on, and Dawn scowled as the girl positioned herself next to Sean.  Eileen nudged him like she was letting him in on the joke.  "Dawn's full of ideas on how to escape a big nasty.  Spike - you know her from when she was little, right?"

"Pretty much," answered Spike, "you could say that."  His tone had cooled considerably as he watched the interaction between the two girls, and he eyed the pretty blonde in front of him.  She was wearing too much makeup, but that was typical of girls her age.  And she seemed to be gunning for Dawn in a major way.

Eileen smiled her best, most innocent smile at Spike.  "Dawn says that she'd be able to kill a monster with a chair leg.  Or, a PIECE of a chair leg, to be exact.  But don't you think that's a little optimistic?" She said this in another version of The Voice, a just-between-us tone.  

Dawn seethed, the implication hanging in the air like an accusation.  Just like Eileen to make her sound like a greedy, bragging child, and at a time like this? In front of Spike AND Sean, no less… 

Spike considered Eileen for a moment, then turned and looked objectively at Dawn.  She squirmed a little under his intense stare, but she could see his expression change gradually as he took in the definition in her arms, the balance in her stance, the long lines of muscle underneath her clothes.  He gaped at her delightedly.

"I reckon she could take almost anything at this point!  You been training with Buffy?" He was almost gleeful as he turned her around, looking her up and down like a new toy.  Dawn laughingly pushed him away, thrilled that he'd noticed.

"Yeah, she finally decided to let me in on it," she said, showing him some of her more impressive calluses.

"Ah, I always thought I should've gone to work on you that summer, before everything… hey," he stopped, backtracking.  "She lets you IN?"  

"Purely self-defense," Dawn clarified ruefully.  Suddenly, both of them became aware of Dawn's friends, who were desperately trying to follow the flow of the conversation.  Eileen had lost the plot completely, and Spike's emphatic response made her jump.

"This girl could take you out with just about anything, Ellen," he told her.  Mispronouncing her name couldn't hurt either, he supposed.  "I doubt you lot've met her sister, but Buffy isn't much to look at, either.  In a fighting-opponent sort of way, that is," he added.  He absently fingered the scar marring his eyebrow, and Dawn's friends abruptly noted the breadth of his shoulders, the vaguely predatory cast to his movements.  Eileen stopped smirking.

"But I've fought a fair few in my day, and come out on top almost every time," Spike grinned wolfishly at the admission, but quickly focused on his point.  "Buffy could take me down almost every time.  If Dawn's even half as good as her sister, then I'm not worried about her."  He half-smiled at Dawn.  "Little worried for myself, more like."

The balance of power had shifted, it was clear; with Spike backing her up, Dawn knew she was beginning to sound too good to be true.  Eileen looked at Dawn, then back at Spike; she considered the situation for a moment, and plastered a sneer on her face.  

"Nice, Dawn – I knew your family was a little off, but your friends, too?  Jeez, I'd hate to be a guest at one of your parties.  Neighbors swinging at each other, a sister who's probably too busy to show anyhow, 'good family friends' who also beat each other up on a regular basis… good to know."  She smoothed down her blouse and folded her arms.  "You know, if this is what happens to people around you, I think I'll just take the bus home.  Might be safer.  Anyone else?" Without waiting for a reply, she spun on her heel and loped out of the multiplex, Rachel tailing her anxiously.  

"Spike, meet the Sarcastibitch," muttered Alicia.  Spike barked a short laugh, then glowered at the girl's retreating back.  Dawn just waited for the inevitable.

Sean sighed.  "Much as I hate to say it, I have to go after her."  

"Oh, okay," Dawn's heart sank, but she tried to sound upbeat.  Hey, it was bound to happen sometime, she thought to herself.  Guess it's not the Hellmouth after all – it's the Summers curse.  Love 'em, get left by 'em…

"No," Sean said, taking Dawn's wrist.  "I mean, she's got the keys to the car in her purse.  I'll be right back."  He squeezed gently, then jogged through the doors after Rachel and Eileen.  

The doors had barely shut after him before Kirsten and Alicia were jostling Dawn delightedly, nearly trampling Spike in their eagerness to get to their friend.  Spike snorted and retreated, joining Christopher and Brian as they mocked the events.

"Oooooh, he touched your WRIST, Dawn!" Christopher warbled in a high falsetto, affecting Kirsten's light southern twang.  

"And you know what THAT is, right?"  Brian-as-Alicia squeaked, "It's right next to your HAND!"

"And that means luuuuuurve!" Christopher trilled.  Both boys swooned, and Spike rolled his eyes behind them.

"HEY!  I heard that!"  Kirsten tried to look fierce, but was giggling too much to hold the expression.  "C'mon, we need to get some microwave popcorn-thingies before CVS closes."

"What, and you can't go on your own?" Brian asked, outraged.  "It's right next door!"

"Yeah, but Eileen's out there somewhere." Kirsten shuddered.  "And once she finds out that Sean only wants the keys back…?  Safety in numbers, kiddos."  She turned to Spike. 

"We'll be right back, but if we miss you – it was real nice to meet you."  Spike grinned at the girl and nodded back as she dragged the two boys out of the lobby.  He was glad that Dawn had these people around her.  She hadn't had enough friends back home.  Or was it even home anymore?  He turned around to see Dawn in deep conversation with Alicia.  Well, the question would just have to wait, along with all of the others that were streaking through his mind.  He hadn't expected any of this to happen, but now Dawn had found him, he was going to have to make some plans.  He leaned up against a pillar, closed his eyes and tried to think.

"Well, I think he's gonna be all over you like… like…."  Alicia stopped.  "You know, I can't think of anything to end that phrase that's not vulgar and gross, so I'll just say that he luuuuuuuuuuurves you!"

"Oh, shut up!"  But Dawn was blushing pink and her smile was so wide that it was beginning to hurt.  She clamped her lips together and tried to distract Alicia before Sean turned up again.  "Shhhhh, or he'll SO come in and hear you saying all of this and get all wigged."  What else to talk about….. oh!  

"So, that's Spike!  Can you believe that he could see I'd been training?  I'm so psyched, I can't even tell you…"  But Alicia's face clouded over at the change in topic.  She grabbed Alicia's hand.  "Whoa – what?  What's wrong?"

The words burst out of Alicia like she'd been waiting to say them.  "He beat up your sister?  I thought he… they were kind of…" Alicia trailed off, looking uncertainly at Spike a few feet away.  Dawn saw Spike stiffen and open his eyes.  Shit.  Fucking vampire hearing.

"Sparring partners," she supplied.  "They never really hurt each other…"  Her mind flickered back to the last time she'd spoken to Spike, and she winced.  She looked at Spike, but he was staring at the floor fixedly.

"No, we hurt each other."  The words were harsh and gritted out between clenched teeth.  Spike looked up sharply, and Dawn couldn't tell which emotion was more evident on his face: rage or pain.  "We hurt each other badly, Dawn."  Alicia stepped behind Dawn a little, as though she were trying to avoid a blast.  Spike noticed the move and dropped his head.  Screwing up again, he thought bitterly, all over again.  A new set of kids to be afraid of him.

"But she didn't – Buffy doesn't hate you."  Dawn struggled to get the words out, torn between Alicia's wariness of Spike and Spike's obvious emotional turmoil.  "Seriously, she's not mad.  Are you pissed off at her or something?"

"No."  He said it quietly, and peered past Dawn at Alicia.  "Sorry, Alicia.  I'm not too good with the steady-emotions bit."  He smiled ruefully and mussed his hair again.  The entire motion reminded Alicia of a frustrated little boy, and she relaxed a bit.

"No, I shouldn't have mentioned it, I don't know anything about you and Dawn's sister," Alicia insisted.  "As I told Dawn earlier, I can be obnoxious and loud, though tonight I seem to be on a roll."

"Oh, you are not," Dawn groaned, shoving her slightly.  Alicia smiled apologetically at Spike, and he shrugged.

"Doesn't matter, don't think of it.  Now," he said, coming over to Dawn, "I've got to get out of here."  Dawn began to object, but he cut her off, rooting around in the pockets of his jacket as he continued.  

"I'm going to give you my number, because you're an insistent little bit and you'll whine until you get it."

"Too true!" chirped Dawn smugly.

Spike chuckled and handed over a strip of pink paper with a printed phone number on it.  "I'm staying at this number for now, it's just me so call when you want."  He tilted her chin up with one finger so that she looked him in the eye.  "And we should talk soon, love.  You let me know, right?"  Dawn nodded, eyes wide.  He smiled at her, quickly kissed her on the forehead and stepped back.

"Pleasure to meet you, Alicia – see you soon."  He backed away a couple of steps before spinning and swiftly slipping out of the multiplex.  Dawn exhaled slowly as she watched him leave, the pink paper clutched safely in her palm.

"He's a little intense, but nice," mused Alicia beside her.  "Not to mention hot."

"Yeah," Dawn agreed.  "I always thought so.  My sister does, too."  She turned to Alicia earnestly.  "He and Buffy never actually damaged each other, not really.  He didn't beat her…"  In fact, she thought, it was the other way around if anything.  She tried a different approach.

"They're both just too strong, and my sister had different priorities and different reasons and…" She sighed.  "I think they really liked each other, but it all blew up in their faces."

"My mom used to say 'You always hurt the ones you love'.  Sucks that it's true."  Alicia said sympathetically.  Dawn leaned her head on Alicia's shoulder and nodded.  Outside, Sean was walking back towards them, his breath misting white in the cold, damp air. Spike was nowhere to be seen.

TBC


	4. Memory

*

"This is hell.  I am in hell."  Dawn twisted away from her desk to see Alicia staring glumly at her computer screen.

"Hotmail's hell?" She could just see the familiar blue border over Alicia's shoulder.  "You've forgotten your password again, haven't you?  It's swedishchef.  S-W-E…"

"No, I WISH I'd forgotten my password."  Alicia pushed back so that Dawn could read the text of the email, leaning back in her chair and staring at the ceiling in disgust.

"What?"  Dawn finished reading and looked at her roommate, completely confused.  "Isn't that nice?  I mean, it's something to do while you're there…"

"Are you kidding?"  Alicia viciously exited out of the program and stalked over to her bed, flopping onto it face-first.  Her muffled voice was just audible through the pillow.  "First I have to go to my grandmother's for Spring Break, the grandmother that's like a reincarnation of Queen Victoria, NOT the one who bakes cookies and watches 'CSI' with me, the other one.  And now I have to go to see 'CATS' with my deranged cousins who are ten years younger than me and on a total anti-American kick right now.  AUGH!"

Dawn hid a smile.  "Lise, seven year olds suck as a general rule.  And besides, it means that your grandmother's trying to do something nice, rather than have you stuck in the middle of Nowhere, England for a week.  Graciousness to her subjects and all."  Alicia bolted upright, outraged.

"No, it means that we have to drive five hours, from Bath to London, to watch people dressed up as cats prance around and sing.  While I try to prevent three infants from dashing off while their mad, mad MAD parents completely ignore them, as usual, pretending that they're a young cosmopolitan couple on a night out who got stuck bringing the kids and the nanny to a show.  I'm the nanny, by the way," she scowled.  "And then, I'll bet MONEY that we drive back the same night!  MONEY!"  She collapsed on the bed again, groaning in anguish.

"Well, I'll pity you as I wing it back to California," Dawn replied sympathetically.  "Tell you what – the flight's about five hours, so I'll watch the worst possible movie choice.  Twice.  That way you won't have to suffer alone."  Alicia looked up at her, grinning.

"Hee.  What movie?"

"I don't know the choices yet, but something like…. 'The Patriot'.  That would cause pain." Dawn grimaced at the thought.

"And yet, pleasure with the pain, therefore disqualifying it," Alicia vetoed.  "It's got Heath Ledger in it, and I'm talking about maximum distress here.  What else you got?"

Dawn thought.  "Oh – anything with Van Damme, Schwartzenegger or…" Alicia waited.  "Oh, OH!  Nicholas Cage!  Doing an accent!"

"Done!"  Alicia sat up again, visibly cheered.  "And I, in turn, shall try not to kill all three spawn."  She looked shiftily to one side.  "…maybe just one.  They'd never miss it."

"Evil," Dawn chuckled, and then jumped as the phone rang.  Both girls stared at the handset on Dawn's bed, then looked at each other.

"Sean!  Sean, Sean, Sean…"  Alicia began to warble, and Dawn frantically tried to smother her with a pillow while answering the phone.  

"Hello?"  Whoops, a little out of breath, but she still sounded pretty good.  Alicia gurgled under the pillow, and Dawn gave her a shove.

"Hey, Bit?"

"Oh, hi," she replied absently.  "Wrong boy," she said as an aside to Alicia, but Spike caught it easily.

"Oh, is that how it is?  Answer a bleeding message, this is the thanks…"

"NO!  No, no, sorry," Dawn sputtered, waving a hand at a confused Alicia.  "You're a right-boy, too, just a different sort of right-boy."

"And in English, like the rest of the population?"  Spike's tone was sarcastic, but Dawn could tell that he wasn't irritated by her rude opener.  She breathed a little easier.

"In English, there's a guy.  He might call today, and we just got a little jumpy when the phone rang.  But I DID call you, and I'm really glad you called back."  She settled on her bed, pulling her feet up in a reverse-lotus that made Alicia wince.  "Yeah, the message - I'm sorry, but I can't meet up tonight.  There's this paper for a totally EVIL history professor, and he's saying that I've gotten the order of the Chinese dynasties completely wrong, so I have to go and do some research at the library."  She pouted as he sighed audibly on the other end of the line.  "I would blow it off, but it's the last paper of the term, and the library's only open late tonight, and it's worth 50% of my grade, so if I don't finish it I'll get killed in many, many ways."

Spike marveled at the way her vocabulary had changed.  Like any other teenager, "to be killed" once again meant "to get into trouble" and she tossed it into the conversation so casually… the young heal quick, he thought to himself. 

"All right, I'll just have to reschedule all of those terribly important and pressing engagements I'd readjusted…"

"Awwwww, SPIKE!" Dawn whined, playing the part.  She knew that he wasn't busy, but it was nice to fall back into this banter she knew so well.  "Well, Lise and I are going to grab something to eat in town before we head to the library, you want to come?  We'll go somewhere with fried onions, I promise."

"Uh…" Dawn was a little surprised when he hedged.  He was usually pretty decisive…  "Yeah, fine.  But I have to pick something up at about eight o'clock, so it'd have to be quick."

"Sure, yeah," Dawn replied, a little hesitantly.  "UNO's at six-thiry?"

"Sundown after seven, so you two start, I'll just show up.  Don't bother ordering for me."  Spike sounded a little curt, and Dawn was afraid that she'd really upset him.

"Spike, I'm really sorry about canceling…"

"No worries, Dawn," he answered in a gentler tone.  And then, quietly: "But we really do have to have a chat about all this, sooner or later.  It's been a week, and there's some… things, we have to get out in the open."

"Sure," Dawn creased her forehead a little.  She hadn't meant to let it go, really, but she'd had lots of work to do, and there were here friends and Sean to spend time with before they all went home for break… Guilt panged through her.  This was obviously an important thing for Spike, and she was letting him down.  The last thing she wanted was for Spike to be disappointed in her, especially after she'd changed so much!  Spike and Sunnydale just seemed so… far away.  

"Hey, Bit?  You remember the protection-tricks the witches used to pull?"

"Uh, yeah, kinda," she replied.  

"You've got a couple of those up and running at your dorm, right?"  He sounded concerned, and Dawn laughed.

"Yeah, don't worry, Buffy helped me set up in August.  And she set up EVERYTHING.  Not that there's anything to worry about around here," she added, looking out the window at the pristine campus, the snow still sticking to tree branches in clumps.  No, nothing out of the ordinary ever happened here – and Dawn was getting to like it.

Spike muttered something on the other end of the phone.  "Can't be too safe."

"Uh, Spike?  New Hampshire.  There's nothing to fear but cows."  Alicia mooed at her from across the room, having only heard half of the conversation.  Dawn grinned at her.  "You're getting scarily good at that, Lise," she called.

"HEY!  What you trying to say?" Alicia shouted, launching a pillow at her.

"Well, don't kill each other before tonight, right?" Spike chuckled down the line.  "Love, I'll see you later, okay?"

"'Kay, Spike!  I promise, I'll make the wild animal behave!" giggled Dawn, ducking a fresh volley.

"I'd like to see you try," snarled Alicia, and all Spike could hear was screeching and laughing as he hung up the phone.

"…and I HATE 'CATS'.  I mean, what the hell IS a "jellicle cat"?  It's not black, not white, not a bunch of other things..." Alicia continued, digging through her pocket for the change to make up her part of the bill.  "Basically, it's never defined.  It's the most annoying premise for the most annoying show in the history of theatre.  And I usually LIKE theatre."  She slid her $10.50 on the tray with Dawn's bills and the collection of coins that made up Spike's contribution.  

Dawn leaned against her friend, happily full, and watched Spike as he tried to follow Alicia's train of thought.  They'd been chattering at him, rapid-fire, since he sat down half an hour before.  Sometimes they could sound like a vaudeville act, she knew, tripping over each other's sentences and puns, barely letting others get a word in edgewise.  It had been like this since they met in September; strangers often thought they were sisters, or childhood friends.  Dawn always felt a rush when people said that.  A childhood friendship was one of many things she couldn't claim, but Alicia made her feel like she had one.

Spike hadn't said much of anything, between his plate of fried food and the girls' banter.  He was grinning, though, and she could tell that he approved of the vibrant brunette sitting across from him.  

Alicia always made friends easily, Dawn had noticed.  It was just something about her, like an aura.  She wasn't beautiful in a conventional sense, and she could never be called petite in the way Buffy and her friends all seemed to be… she was more like Dawn, the new Dawn.  Tall and rangy, more prone to cords and sneakers than miniskirts and heels. Her face was liberally freckled, giving her a mischievous appearance, and her eyes were the brightest green Dawn had ever seen without colored contacts. Lise sparkled with confidence as she chattered to Spike, gesturing easily over the remains of their dinner.  After clearing up a few of the finer points about Spike with Dawn, Alicia had clearly decided he had been given the all-clear.  The "friends of my friends are my friends" policy, as Alicia would say.

"Unfortunately, there's no way out of it, even though I saw the show once when I was ten and honestly?  I think that's enough suffering for one lifetime."  Alicia tipped some ice out of her glass and sucked on it pensively.  "Hey – you must have seen it, Spike.  Don't you agree that it's something that should be reserved only for the torture of lawyers?"

Spike cocked his head and shrugged.  "Sorry, love, can't remember that show."  

Alicia nearly swallowed her ice.  "How could you possibly have missed it!  It's been on in London for about 25 years, hasn't it?  Plaguing audiences for a quarter of a century," she mused, then shuddered convulsively.  "So it had to have been pretty omnipresent when you were growing up."  

She paused.  "How old ARE you, anyway?"

"Ancient," Spike replied, barely, through the last of his onion rings.  Ketchup oozed from a corner of his mouth and Dawn twitched a little at an unwelcome memory.

"And that would be…?" Alicia pressed, completely unaware of what she was asking.

"Oh, I think there are a couple of pyramids that have him beat, right?" Dawn interjected.  Spike growled and pointed at her.

"One of these days, little miss…"  But the ketchup was still there, and the entire sentence set Dawn a little on edge.  She grabbed a napkin and tossed it to Spike.  He looked at her questioningly.

"You got a little foodage goin' on there, killer," Alicia pointed to the edge of her own mouth as a guide.  Spike shot a glance at Dawn as he wiped away the red stain.  She looked at the tablecloth.  The interaction passed Alicia by completely, but even she could feel the sudden change of mood.  She cleared her throat and lifted her eyebrows, fiddling with her nails under the edge of the table.  "Well, then."

"Indeed," Spike sighed, then smiled quickly at the girls.  "Lovely evening, ladies, but I'll have to be moving."  He swung out of the booth easily, and Dawn hastened to clamber out next to him.  She reached out for his hand apologetically, and he let her take it for a moment.  Then he grimaced and began to weave through the tables away from them.

Dawn looked at Alicia dejectedly.  Somehow she'd let it all go wrong again.  She pulled at her hair in irritation, sharp tugs that made her scalp sore.  Alicia noted the gesture and slipped out of the booth.  

"We can catch him, c'mon.  Even I can feel that ended – not well," she stated diplomatically.  Dawn looked at her.  "Move, girl!  Move!" Alicia pushed Dawn ahead of her and they ran out of the restaurant.

"Spike, wait!" Dawn was breathless as she caught up with him; he'd been walking pretty quickly, but it hadn't been hard to pick him out in the parking lot.  His trademark pissed-off walk: head down, stiff shoulders, stalking stiff-legged across the tarmac.  He turned, exhaling loudly.

"Yes?"

"Spike, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to piss you off…" she spread her arms wide, shrugging helplessly.  "I guess I'm out of practice."

He paced.  "It's not your fault, Bit – but we need to talk, get stuff out and on the table."  His eyes flickered up to Alicia, who was standing on the other side of the road, trying to be inconspicuous.  "And as much as I like Alicia, I'm thinking that she wouldn't really appreciate the subject matter," he said, scratching at his eyebrow significantly.  

"No, not if it's Sunnydale stuff," she agreed.  They both scuffed at the ground with their feet awkwardly.  "So alone, then?"

"When you like," he shrugged.  

"Yeah," Dawn breathed.  "Well, I have term finals all the rest of this week, but then only a few the week after," she said more decisively, straightening up.  "And the later ones are all french and englishy-stuff, and a really easy geography quiz, more of a joke than anything; there's not much studying I have to do for those, no formulas or anything.  I should be done with my history paper tomorrow – it's all written, I just need to rearrange the dynasties, apparently, hence the research tonight.  But that's not a problem.  The formulas and sciency-bits are the hard parts for me, for some reason."  Okay - rambling, she thought, and stopped.

"Don't want to get in the way of your studying, of course," Spike grumbled half-heartedly.  

"But I WILL have some time over the weekend," she wheedled, sidling over to him and tugging on his sleeve.  "And I want to meet.  I really do.  Saturday night okay?"

He slanted a smile at her, and nodded.  "Yeah, that's fine.  I'll find a place."  He quirked a smile at hear.  "And am I going to get ditched for the right-boy, by any chance?"

"Hell, no!  It's Friday or nothing for him; Saturday, I'm all yours."  She grinned and began to back away, bouncing on the balls of her feet.  "It's settled, then?  OH!"  She canted over sideways as she unexpectedly came up against the curb.  Spike lunged forward, but he couldn't grab Dawn before she came down hard on the pavement.

"OW!" Dawn sucked air through her teeth, wincing.  "That HURT!"  

"Ohmigod, Dee!"  Alicia darted across the street as Spike helped Dawn sit up gingerly.  He settled her carefully on the edge of the curb, worriedly hunched over her shoulder.  Suddenly, he jolted and pulled back, and Dawn swayed a little at the sudden absence of support.  

Alicia crouched down next to her, an arm around her shoulders.  "Are you okay?"  

Dawn was leaning over to her right, scouring the angle where the curb met the tarmac.  She rooted around delicately for a couple of moments before triumphantly snatching something from the shadow.  "Ha!" she grunted, proffering a long shard of glass bottle.  It glinted wickedly, and Alicia took it from her carefully.  "I think it got me."

"Dude, check it out now – if it's bad, I'll go get something from the restaurant," Alicia promised, but she craned closer to Dawn's leg.  "D'you think it went through your pants?"

"Yeah, feels like it.  Auuugh, new jeans and everything!  Fuck it," Dawn winced, pulling up the denim leg.  In the glare of the parking-lot floodlights, a long gash glowed darkly against her pale skin.  She gestured behind her in Spike's direction, too busy inspecting her leg to bother looking up.  "Don't you dare say ANYTHING about my milky-white complexion, Spike, there's no sun in New England – as I'm sure you've noticed."  Dammit, it hurt a lot – and she hoped it wouldn't leave a scar.  Right down her shinbone; figures.

Alicia squinted at Dawn's leg, prodding gently with a finger.  "No, it looks bad, but it's shallow – like one of those scrapes you get while shaving?  Bleeds like a motherfucker, but I wouldn't worry."  She stood halfway up and reached a hand down to Dawn.  "What Band-Aids were made for, bud.  Spike, could you throw this out?"  She held the shard of glass out expectantly, not looking.

But she got no answer.  Dawn looked behind them, realizing that they hadn't heard from him for a while.  There was no one there, just the blinking lights of the strip mall across the main road.  Spike had vanished.

"Well, that's nice," Alicia said, miffed.  "I know he was in a hurry, but what the hell?"

"Yeah," Dawn agreed, annoyed.  Thanks, then, Spike.  Her leg twinged again and she turned back around, carefully sliding her jeans leg down over the slice on her shin.  It was gushing pretty badly now.  "Lise, I think I'm going to have to get this washed out – help me to the bathrooms?"

"Duh, of course I will," Alicia sniffed, still scouring the parking lot for a sign of Spike.  "Jeez, I still think…."

"Leave it, Lise," Dawn said shortly, struggling to her feet.  She didn't want to think about Spike abandoning her right now.  Alicia was immediately there, offering her arm to lean on and carefully watching the way Dawn moved on her feet. They shuffled towards the restaurant slowly, silently, and Dawn shook her head.  Life was getting complicated again.

2:00, Alicia's clock glowed redly across the room.  Dawn turned over in her bed, her mind flitting around too frantically to sleep.  Alicia had insisted that Dawn get into bed at 12:00, first quoting her injury, then exams, and then admitting that she herself was exhausted.  In fact, Dawn estimated, Alicia'd been asleep minutes after her head hit the pillow.  But Dawn was still awake, and her 9 AM class was closer every moment.

Dawn shifted again, unable to stop an irritating sensation in her head that she was forgetting something.  Something big, her mind kept saying, something very big.  She'd been turning things over in her mind all night, from schoolwork to friendships to her calls back home, but she couldn't pick out anything in particular.  It was the most annoying thing, watching the numbers tick by on the clock, not being able to figure out what she should be worried about.  She stared at the ceiling and exhaled powerfully.

Spike. 

It was as though someone shouted his name in her head.  She sat straight up in bed as certain pieces of information suddenly clicked into sequence in her head.  Spike meeting her friends – what had he said to Alicia?  "See you again soon?"  Why?  Why did he assume he'd see her again, if he wanted to meet Dawn alone?  And why did he want to know if her dorm had been Hellmouth-ized?  "Can't be too safe"…

She began to shake, clutching the blankets to her tight.  He wanted to meet her alone, without her friends, after not seeing her for almost two years.  He hadn't told her where he'd been, he'd changed his appearance, he'd stated almost forcefully that he'd hurt Buffy… hurt BADLY, if she remembered rightly.  

And then there was tonight.  He'd been fine when he thought she'd only fallen down, but then he'd disappeared, just as she realized that she was bleeding.  Really bleeding.  He'd gone. On a mysterious errand that he'd apparently scheduled at the same time that they'd originally been meant to meet.  What the hell had he needed just before he saw her?  Was it something special for when he picked her up, brought her somewhere abandoned and had her alone?

Oh fuck.  Fuck fuck fuck.  "The chip."

TBC


	5. Form and Function

*

"And then she goes, 'The Chip'?" Kirsten looked confused.  "What's that supposed to mean?"

"No clue," Alicia said, popping another french fry in her mouth.  "Came out of nowhere, 2 AM, no warning."

"And she's never talked in her sleep before?"  Sean asked, concerned.  Alicia looked at him, half-chew, and suddenly realized that Dawn could use a little loyalty here.

"Well," she covered, "She's never said anything before.  But you know how everyone says things in their sleep every once in a while?"  She shrugged nonchalantly.  "I have to sleep in the same room as my sisters whenever we go on vacation, and Katie once sat right up in bed, middle of the night, and accused me of stealing her duck."

"Your sister has a duck?"  Kofi raised an eyebrow significantly.  "I thought you lived in the middle of Boston?"

"Exactly; she doesn't have a duck, we've never had a duck, there is NO DUCK.  But the little weirdo wouldn't shut up until I told her 'okay, here's the duck'!"  Alicia spread her hands triumphantly, as though her point was proven.

"So you gave her a duck anyhow…"  Kofi was obviously behind the learning curve on this one, and Alicia dropped her head on the dining hall table, groaning.

"No," Sean ignored Alicia's histrionics and tried to explain.  

"I think what she's saying – inasmuch as I EVER understand what Lise is talking about," and he yelped as Alicia kicked him under the table without lifting her head.  "Ow - is that the duck wasn't the thing that mattered.  Sometimes people just say whacked-out stuff in their sleep; it has nothing to do with their lives.  Right?"  He looked at Alicia, pointedly rubbing his shin.

"Yeah, exactly."  Alicia sighed and propped her chin up on her folded arms.  "I mean, what could 'The Chip" mean?"

"Maybe she's got a huge gambling debt we don't know about in Vegas because she lost a thousand-dollar chip," suggested Kirsten.  "She had to move from California because the casino's got goons on her tail and now she's masquerading as a student.  She's really 25 and has an ex-con husband."

"Or maybe she meant 'CHiPS'," Brian offered.  "You know, she's got a secret lust for Erik Estrada and calls his name out in the middle of the ni…." He stopped, looking queasy.  "No, that can't be it, I've just grossed myself out."

"Chip, like 'Chip'n'Dale'?" Kofi ventured.

Sean choked on his soda.  "The Chippendales?  I don't think she's that kind of girl, Kofi."

Kofi rolled his eyes at Sean.  "Chip.  And.  Dale.  You know, the cartoon chipmunks?  The one with the red nose who's always idiotic?  Chippendales, heh – where the heck is YOUR mind?"  He looked askance at Sean. "Then again, Dawn having a thing for a big, dumb animal?  Maybe you're onto something."

"Hunh?"  

"Ahem?" Kirsten elbowed Kofi significantly, and he dropped the subject.  "Besides, that's Dale with the red nose - Chip's the really irritable one.  If you're gonna insult him, at least get it right."

"How 'bout this."  Christopher leaned forward.  "Maybe she's got a secret government chip that's been implanted in her brain, and one day she'll go all 'Alias'-assassin-spy on us."  He grinned.  "That'd be pretty cool, actually."

"Or," Alicia announced, rejoining the conversation, "Maybe she was having a totally mundane dream about baking cookies and she suddenly realized that she'd forgotten to add the dream-chips."  She fidgeted a little.  "Besides, I don't think she's feeling too well.  She got up at around 3 AM to finish writing her paper, and when I left this morning at eleven, she asked me to hand it in for her 'cause she was going to stay home and rest."  She frowned at her sandwich.  "I hope she's all right."

"Did she look sick?"  Kirsten asked.

"No, just a little pale – I don't think she really slept that well.  I hope it doesn't have anything to do with the scrape she got last night, like it got infected or anything."  Alicia sighed, playing with her straw wrapper.  She crumpled it up and tossed it on her tray in irritation.  "I'm not going to be back until late tonight, too – I've got play rehearsal until about ten."

Sean swallowed hurriedly.  "D'you think she'd mind if I checked on her?"  He looked anxiously at Alicia, and she smiled at him.  "I mean, I could knock on her door when I get back from lecture, maybe bring her a sandwich or something."

Kirsten winked at Alicia across the table, and Alicia held back a laugh.  "Yeah, she'd probably be fine with it."  Sean nodded a little nervously.  "You can tell her that I asked you to, if you want," she added, and he quirked a smile at her, relieved.  

Brian looked at his watch and groaned.  "All right, gang, back to the salt mines!" he announced.  He pointed at Kirsten and Alicia.  "And you two, you're walking into trig with me.  There is no way in hell that I'm getting stuck partnered with Marcus the Mathematician again – I barely finish the first problem set and find out he's already gone and solved cold fusion."  He picked up his tray and strode off, the two girls tagging along behind him.  

"So," Sean turned to Christopher, "Should I bring Dawn ginger ale?  I think that's good for sick people…"

Christopher covered his eyes with his hand, laughing.  "Dude, you are SO WHIPPED.  And you haven't even gone on a date yet!"  He put his head down on the table, chuckling madly.

"Not yet," Sean said under his breath.  But he was grinning.

After Alicia left, Dawn had stared at the phone for hours, wondering what to do.  Curled up on her bed in the fetal position, she felt herself zone out, then suddenly snap back into panicky focus again and again.  The urge to call Buffy was so strong, so familiar, she found herself reaching for the phone a couple of times unconsciously.  Then she would grab her hand back as though the phone had burned her; there was no way to ask Buffy about this one, no time.  Besides, Buffy had worked so hard to send her here, had FOUGHT to make this chance possible – it would be unfair to drag her back into all of that weirdness.  

No, Dawn told herself, this is a different battle.  My battle.

The first thing she did was call information, trying to get an address on Spike's number.  She was pretty surprised to find that Directory Inquiries didn't hand addresses out, only phone numbers.  Hmmmm.  She tried the internet a couple of times, too, but no luck.  Finally, she decided to come back to the problem later.  As a last resort, she put the number on her Away Message.

"Know which area this number is in?  CALL ME." Dawn read it back to herself and snorted.  Like a needle in a haystack.  She turned off the monitor so it wouldn't distract her and moved on to the next step.

She looked out the window.  Sunny afternoon, if cold.  The snow had melted a bit overnight, and someone had been plowing all of the paths.  She half-smiled to herself.  It was pretty out.  She took one last look, then pulled the blinds all the way down, darkening the room completely.

Dawn switched on the overhead lamp and locked the door, then turned to the mirror.  The light was dim, two of the bulbs having burned out without being replaced and the third valiantly illuminating as much as it could.  Just enough light to see the state she was in.  She hadn't changed out of the tank top and sweats she slept in, and her hair hung around her face in a tangled cascade.  Right, she thought, picking up a brush.  

With long, hard strokes she soon had her hair sleek and smooth, and expertly bound it up in an elastic band at the nape of her neck.  A few well-placed bobby pins secured any of the shorter chunks.  She pulled a length of black leather, borrowed illegally from Buffy, out of her jewelry box.  She wrapped it securely around the ponytail, tying it off in a series of square knots.  That done, she took a deep breath before pulling off her tank top and sliding her sweats off her legs.

The fuzzy inside of the sweats didn't part with her right shin easily, having attached itself to the Band-Aids over the past few hours.  Dawn ignored the snagging material and pulled harder, taking most of the bandages off with the pants.  She bent down to examine the cut; true to Alicia's word, it was shallow, but long.  Dawn peeled back the rest of the Band-Aids to discover the gash had completely scabbed over, thanks to all of the first aid cream Alicia had slathered on it.  She tipped some water from her Poland Springs bottle onto a tissue and gently washed off the extra blood.  When she was done, she tested her weight on the injured leg.  

A little numb, maybe, but it would do.  The wound wasn't threatening to split, either, which was always good news.  She rubbed more cream into it, and turned to the mirror.

The scars stared back at her.  No matter how many times she got injured, nothing was as shocking as those thin lines that danced around her torso.  They never overlapped, and were all so uniform, so precise.  She turned a little to one side; as thin as she was, she would never be able to wear a bikini on the beach.  The scars were just too weird to be accidents.  

She'd tried a bikini on, once, while shopping with Janice.  She hadn't even been able to leave the changing room.  Under the fluorescent lights the silvery lines had practically glowed, and Dawn had suddenly been reminded of gills.  That's exactly what they looked like: gills.  Sloping up from her center, almost parallel with the ribs just below the skin.  She traced her fingers over them gently.  One day, she'd find someone who she could tell all of this to, all of the crap that clogged up her life and the lives of her friends.  And with him, she could wear a bikini and show him her scars and they'd both laugh about how she looked like a new-age mermaid.

She sighed.  Enough of that.  

She quickly changed into new underwear, picked out a sports bra.  The next choices should have been more complicated, but Dawn unerringly grabbed a pair of olive cargo pants, a close-fitting black t-shirt, and a black turtleneck fleece.  She laid them out on the bed carefully, considering them.  She'd been waiting for this, she realized.  Maybe not this occasion exactly, but something like it.  Since September, she'd always known that this would be the outfit to choose.  Somewhere in the back of her mind, she'd seen herself going out into the night in these clothes.  Dawn shook her head.  Never went away, really, did it?  Even if you thought you'd forgotten… she shut her eyes tightly.  Enough.

She pulled on the t-shirt, carefully avoiding her hair, and smoothed it down over her scarred ribs.  The cargo pants fit snugly at her waist; she gave them a few experimental tugs, but the waistband didn't threaten to go past her hipbones.  Thank god for hips, she thought to herself.  Hipster jeans were well and good, but to have them slide right off at a crucial moment?  Not so thrilling.

The black fleece was a relatively new acquisition.  Alicia's cousin, Felicity, had driven over from the University of Vermont one weekend and they'd gone on a huge shopping trip at the outlet malls.  This North Face fleece had called to her immediately, with its tailored lines and pockets hidden everywhere.  Alicia and Flick had tried to convince her to buy a yellow or red version, but now, with the zipper pulled right up to her neck, Dawn knew that she had made the right choice.  The black thermal material fit like a second skin, hugging even the column of her neck close.  She held her own gaze in the mirror.  With her hair tied back so severely, the oval of her face hovering just above a sea of black, she looked a little bit deadly.  She lifted her head higher, pulled her facial muscles into an impassive mask.  Impassive and deadly.

The phone shrilled, making her jump.  Heart thumping, she picked up the handset and steadied her breathing.  "Hello?"

"Hey, Dawn?"  A chirpy, french-accented voice echoed down the line.

"Yeah?  Jean-Paul?"  She slumped against her bedpost, relief making her a little shaky.  "What's up?"

"You're not answering your IM."

"Oh, yeah."  She looked at the monitor.  "Sorry, JP, I turned off the monitor.  I, uh," she thought quickly, "I was taking a nap."

"Ah, sorry!  Do you want to call me back later, then?  I didn't know…" he stopped. "Hey, it's 5:00.  You feeling okay?"

"No, I'm just a little tired, it's fine," Dawn sighed, rubbing her eyes.  That much was true, at least.  "Go ahead, what did I miss on IM?"

"That phone number?"  Dawn rocketed to her feet, clutching the phone.

"You know it?" she asked, amazed.

"Unfortunately, I have to admit I do," JP replied ruefully.  Dawn heard a quiet beeping from his end of the line.  A cell phone, maybe?  "You know that often I stay here for summer term, yes?"

"Yes - I mean, I do know that."  Dawn paced, waiting.

"Well, that means a lot of hanging around in town, and it gets hot, and we all get bored..."

Dawn interrupted.  "But the number?"

"Yeah, well, I have it stored on my mobile, cell, whatever you want to call the phone that you carry around with you.  It's the ice cream stand off of the highway, that big long one that makes those huge ice cream sundaes that no one can eat?"

Dawn thought quickly.  "Bruckert's?"

"Yeah!  That's it… they have weird hours, we sometimes call before going out there; otherwise, it's a long trip back on the bus.  Takes about half an hour to get out there from campus."  JP seemed to realize that he was wandering and came back to the topic.  "But Dawn, it opens in late May, early June, something of that sort.  So don't bother ringing now, it'll just be a machine." 

"No, no – I won't," Dawn replied absently.  "I won't.  Thanks, JP."

"Why did you need it anyway?" he asked curiously.

Dawn laughed a little.  "I just found the number on a piece of paper, was wondering if it was important."

"Ah, okay.  Well, I have to get to rehearsal.  Is Alicia coming tonight?"

"What?"  Oh, oh, play rehearsal, of course!  "Yeah, she should be there."

"Should I tell her that you are unwell?"

"No!  No, tell her I'm feeling much better," she scrambled, "…after that nap.  I'll talk to her later; tell her I might be out for a bit."

"Okay, then!  Have a good night!"

"Thanks, JP, you too.  And thanks for the number!"  Dawn hung up the phone and looked at the clock blankly.  Five in the afternoon, and she had to get over to Bruckert's.  She'd have to get out the door by 5:30 to even have a prayer of getting there in time.  She tossed the phone on her bed and strode over to her closet.

She reached in and rummaged around in the back of the cabinet, finally pulling out a pair of Doc Marten boots.  She yanked them on quickly, giving sharp tugs to the laces as she bound them up.  Satisfied, she knelt in front of the closet again and rooted deeper.  Out from the back she dragged a small wheeled suitcase, one of the ones her mother had always called the "air stewardess" suitcases, even long after they'd become widely popular.  She hauled it across the room and tossed it on Alicia's unmade bed.  Taking a deep breath, she unzipped the top and laid it open.

A plain cardboard box fit snugly inside the luggage, marked with Dawn's address in bold block letters.  The return address was smaller, but as Dawn pulled the container out and set it on her bed, the familiar logo looked up at her.

"Magic Box," she sighed to herself.  And hidden in the back of the closet for a damn good reason, she thought.  But was she glad to have it now… She untucked the cardboard corners and folded back the edges of the box to reveal a mass of contraband that the school would confiscate in a moment, if they only knew she had it.

She reached in first for the jewelry.  A tiny silver cross, a near-duplicate of Buffy's, given to her by Xander the summer she started training with them.  She held it up to the artificial light, tilting it to watch the delicate filigree glint.  

"Looks pretty straightforward, but up close it's a complicated little sucker," he had told her, fastening the clasp as she lifted the curtain of her hair out of his way.  "Reminded me of you."  She'd worn it constantly until September, when she'd tucked it away in its little velvet box, to be hidden away.  She hadn't wanted to be complicated any more.

Next came a charm bracelet.  That one had been her own idea, though the clerk looked at her strangely when she requested twelve crucifix charms, each of a slightly different design.  He'd explained that they'd take a while to be special-ordered.  She told him that she'd always wanted to be a nun.  The sale had been completed in record time.

She bypassed the other jewelry; she'd bought dangly cross earrings on a whim one day, thinking that they'd be a good strategy to deter bites, but a couple of days later Buffy had come back from patrol with her ear ripped and bleeding.  Apparently a demon's claw had gotten caught on her huge hooped earring and torn it right out.  Dawn shivered.  Slayers heal quickly; sisters-of-Slayers don't.  The earrings had gone unworn for the past year.

Next, a couple of stakes shoved in cargo pockets, one strung through the belt-loops at the small of her back.  An especially long, thin stake she slid up her left sleeve, through a hole she'd ripped between the lining and outer layers of the fleece.  She pulled it out experimentally a few times, testing the edges, but no splinters caught or snagged.  Satisfied, she went back to her stash.  She'd converted two tester perfume bottles into holy-water atomizers, and she slipped them into the pockets of her fleece.  Couldn't hurt to try.

And one more thing.  Dawn gingerly dug to the bottom of the box, displacing all sorts of paraphernalia, until she found what she was looking for.  A tiny leather holster, with a long, sleek tube fitted inside.  She pulled the switchblade out of its holder, snapping it open and waving it about a couple of times.  A last resort, but she felt better with it; she knelt and bound the entire apparatus to her calf.  Right calf, unfortunately, but she still tugged the straps tight across her shin.  She pulled her pant leg over her switchblade and boot, straightened up, and looked at the clock.  Five twenty.  Just enough time, she thought.

She'd watched Buffy get ready for patrol for long enough to notice one thing: her sister never, ever went out without makeup.  Dawn's friends didn't wear much makeup in New Hampshire, but she made the most of what she had.  A little blush, some tinted lip gloss – hey, better than the usual ChapStick, she mused – and some eye makeup.  She glanced at herself in the mirror again.  Interesting.  She looked frighteningly normal, for what she was preparing to do.

She picked up her Poland Springs squirt bottle and quickly drained it, shaking out the last drops with unsteady hands.  A brief visit to the campus chapel should do the trick, she thought.  The basin just inside the doors would be more than adequate for her purposes, and Father Howard would be in the faculty dining room until six.  She exhaled a couple of times, steadying her nerves.  She felt horribly under-prepared, going out with only a squirt bottle in her hands, but this wasn't home.  People would ask questions if they saw a girl on the street with a battle axe.  She'd have to go as she was.  Right.  She nodded decisively at her reflection, shut off the dim light and opened the door.  

She jumped back immediately, her hand flying to her cargo pocket as the backlit figure in the doorway paused, fist upraised.  She squinted, her eyes adjusting to the light, half-crouched and waiting.

"Dawn?"  Sean gasped, his hand falling to his side.  He stepped back as well, and Dawn realized that he'd been about to knock when she'd come bursting out of the doorway.  He was also clutching something to his chest, she noticed.  She was suddenly aware of her posture and straightened up, casually slipping her hand out of her pocket.

"Oh my god, Sean!  You startled me!" she said weakly, backing up some more.  The box.  She'd forgotten about the box.  She smiled at him as she quickly folded it back up, zipped it back into the rolling suitcase and slid the entire thing under her bed.  He ventured into the room hesitantly, too busy scrutinizing her to notice her actions.  

"Sorry.  I, uh, thought you were sick," he said feebly, holding out a slightly-crushed grilled cheese and a bottle of ginger ale.  "Alicia said that it might be okay if I checked up on you," he quickly added, blushing a little.

"Oh, I was – sick, that is – I feel a lot better now, though.  Twenty-four hour bug in half the time or something."  Dawn bit back a grin.  He was adorable, trying to be cool… but the clock already read 5:35, and she was running out of time.  She stepped forward and took the proffered food, smiling shyly.

"That was so sweet of you – can I eat it when I get back?  I was just about to take off, there's this thing I have to do…" she trailed off, looking at him regretfully.  Of all the nights for him to make a move.  Seriously.

"Yeah – I mean, the grilled cheese might not do so well in the fridge, but…" Sean's brow wrinkled as he watched Dawn stow the food in the fridge under her bed, but gamely went on.  "Actually, I was thinking…"

"Yeah?"  Dawn grabbed her keys and a ten-dollar bill off her bureau and stepped out of the door.  Sean followed her out and she pulled the door shut behind them.

"I know the Empire's only showing old musicals right now, but there's this other theatre over in Concord – it has all of these art house movies that wouldn't really get to the multiplex.  Not because they're dirty or anything," he added hastily, "They're just a little out of the mainstream."  He straightened up, grinning nervously.  "You want to go sometime?  Together?"

"Sure!"  Dawn bubbled.  She giggled up at him, and he exhaled, looking very relieved.

"Excellent!  You wouldn't believe how long I've wanted to ask, but with everyone there…" He reached a hand forward, and Dawn suddenly remembered the stake up her sleeve.  She darted sideways, and Sean pulled his arm back abruptly and shoved his hands in his pockets.  Back to secrets again, she thought ruefully, then scrambled to make up the damage.

"No, no way I'm giving you this bug, not if you're going to take me out this weekend!" she said apologetically, backing further down the hallway.  "But I should be okay by… Friday good with you?"

"Yeah!  Friday's great!"  Sean beamed at her, a little confused, but happy.  Dawn gave him a final wave before breaking into a run down the hallway and disappearing into the stairwell.

"Strange girl," Sean muttered to himself, turning and strolling back to his room.  A brilliant smile lit up his face.  "But MY strange girl."

TBC


	6. A Little Sacrifice

*

Had to be an abandoned building, of course, Dawn thought bitterly as she approached Bruckert's Ice Cream Stand.  Probably due to a complete lack of atmospheric warehouses in suburban New Hampshire.  Then again, maybe she should be happy that they weren't in a cemetery.  Whatever.  

The outside of the stand looked just like Dawn remembered it from August – a little run-down, but in that "we're historic" way that buildings in New England had.  Alicia and Flick had brought her here with Buffy, ironically – Dawn was sure that Spike didn't know that bit of information.  But now the windows were boarded up, and she would bet that the electricity wasn't on, either.  She scowled at the sun, which was setting far too quickly for her tastes.  Six fifteen; that left her about an hour, she'd guess, before all direct sunlight was gone.  An hour to get in and, if she was lucky, get the hell out.

Dawn trotted around the building, partly for speed, partly to keep her courage up.  She came across the broken padlock quickly, and paused.  He'd gotten in through one of the heavy storm doors leading down to the basement, and Dawn cursed quietly.  That meant far too many things, none of them boding well for her:  firstly, the door would be damn heavy; it was also covered in rust, and likely to make a lot of noise; and, most importantly, it led directly to the basement.  She darted a glance to one of the narrow basement windows that peeked out of the building's foundation: covered.  Shit.  

She closed her eyes and considered just leaving.  She wasn't Buffy, and she didn't have Buffy's friends with her.  If Spike was waiting for her on the other side of that door, she wouldn't have a chance.  

But there were other things to consider, she reminded herself.  She opened her eyes again, steeling herself mentally, and grasped the handle of the storm door tightly.  With her other hand she pulled a stake from her pocket.  If she went down immediately, at least Buffy could know that she went down fighting.  She readjusted her grip on the handle and pulled.

The door wasn't as heavy as she'd feared, but it made noise enough to wake the dead.  Dawn gave up on any hope of stealth and threw the door back, lunging into the dark basement.  She blinked a little as she realized that a couple of electric lights were glowing in the shadows; she fluttered her eyelids quickly, trying to adjust to the darker room.  Suddenly, a voice floated out to her.

"Dawn?  What in hell are you doing?"

Dawn spun, picking out the slightly darker shape of Spike out from the general gloom.  She darted back a few paces, deliberately placing the sunlight pouring through the open basement door between herself and the vampire.  He had sounded more bewildered than anything, but she wasn't going to take any chances.  Not until he'd heard what she had to say.

"Spike?"  She straightened up, and he caught the shimmer of her crucifix.  His mouth twisted bitterly.

"Sporting new neckware, I see," he drawled.  He paced over to one of the basement pillars and casually leaned against it, arms crossed over his chest.  "My, my – I wonder what this could mean."  Dawn shivered a little as his tone turned more sinister.

"Spike, does the chip still work?"  Her eyes had adjusted completely now, and Dawn looked right at Spike, straightforward in words and posture.  True, she still had a stake in her hand and what looked like a bottle of water under her arm, but her directness was slightly disarming to Spike.  He sneered, buying a little time.  Old habits die hard.

"Dunno, Bit.  It could."  He leaned forward a little, eyes shining.  "I wouldn't know, given that I last saw it – well, about the same time as I last saw you."  

Shit.  "Okay," said Dawn, watching him closely.  "And how do you feel?"

Spike laughed bitterly.  "What is this, pop psychology from a teenager?"  He snarled.  "How do you think it feels?  Bloody chip's OUT, and it feels fucking brilliant."  He began to prowl towards her, a rolling gait that made Dawn uneasy.  "'Course," he amended, "might make others a tiny bit wary."

"Should have figured you'd react just like big sis – 'Spike's got the chip out, let's all go fucking kill him.'  Same blood and all."  He bit the words out harshly, still advancing.  "But sweet little bit – you're NOT big sis, and there's no way that you can take me on your own, even with that pointy piece of wood you've got there."  She watched him come, holding her ground.

"Spike, stay there."  Dawn spoke forcefully and quietly, but didn't move.  She stood straight-backed, seemingly fearless.  Surprisingly, Spike halted mid-stride.  Then, suddenly, he slumped a little.

"Dawn, what do you want." It was as though he'd abruptly gone hollow.  For a moment there, he'd been the Spike she'd learned to fear, all sinew and sinister intent.  But the way he looked at her now?  He seemed… tired.  And as she watched, he lifted his hands towards her appealingly, spread wide as he shrugged.  As though there was nothing he could say.  He was right, she realized.

"Spike, you know how bad this seems to be for me, right?"  She tried to make her voice amicable, but the tenseness came out with her words.  Spike withdrew into himself again, recrossing his arms, all signs of apology wiped away.  She tried again.  

"Look at it from my perspective: I move to a different part of the country, away from my sister and anyone else who would watch out for me with this - kind of thing."  

Spike raised an eyebrow.  "You can say it, pet, it's not like there's anyone about to hear you."  He smiled evilly at her as she caught the double meaning of his phrase, but she forged on.  

"So I'm settling in, and then you appear.  And I'm thrilled!  'Cause I like you, and I missed you, and you disappeared without telling anyone at all."  Spike took in her words, but his expression didn't change.  Dawn took another deep breath.

"And then you want to meet.  Alone.  You want to know if my room's warded.  You took off in the WEIRDEST way when I cut myself in the parking lot, and then you go and pick 'something' mysterious at an appointment scheduled roughly at the same time I was supposed to meet you.  You've met my friends, you know their names, I introduced you to them as a friend and there's no POSSIBLE way I could warn them about inviting you in without telling them that you're… the way you are."  She shook her head.  "And I can't take that chance, Spike.  These people are my life, and if you've gone all un-chippy, then we have a problem.  Because I can't deal with Sunnydale happening here, Spike.  I just can't."  

"So this is what we're going to do."

She tossed her stake into the patch of sunlight at her feet.  Spike watched, expressionless, as three more stakes followed, then all three containers of holy water.  He did raise his eyebrows a little as Dawn bent down to unstrap the wicked-looking switchblade from her right leg, but his face was impassive again as she straightened, lobbing the holster and blade onto the growing pile.  Her fingers trembled a bit as she fumbled to unclasp her bracelet one-handed, but she managed.  Lastly, she bent her head to remove her necklace.  Almost ceremoniously, she walked over and placed it carefully on the top of the rest.  She half-turned to him, then absently turned back, quickly stripping off her fleece.  As though he might suspect her of hiding one last weapon, he supposed.  Clad only in a thin t-shirt and her pants, Dawn crossed the floor of the basement, stopping a few feet away from where Spike stood.

"Okay," she breathed, a little shaky.  Spike could see the tears standing in her eyes, but she didn't let them fall.  

"Spike, if you want to kill me – do it.  Now.  Because if the chip's out and I'm what you're after, I'm not going to go hiding in warded rooms.  I'm not going to let you kill my friends off one by one, and I'm NOT going to drag them into this world that they don't need to know about – they don't live in our world, with the vampires and werewolves and packs of wild dogs who savage seniors at the prom.  Their Wiccan friends?  Dance in circles in the woods and go to Renaissance Faires, instead of brewing dimension-altering potions.  And a stake is something you eat, it's made out of cows, of which New Hampshire has many."  She was losing control of her speech as it went on, and without her fleece the cold was beginning to get to her.

"Buffy won't tell me anything about Sunnydale, Spike.  It's like it doesn't exist anymore.  She'll tell me about working at the bank and how Xander's doing at the construction site, but if there's an apocalypse coming I won't know any sooner than the rest of the doomed population."  

"She wants me to be NORMAL, Spike."  Dawn was beginning to cry now, though involuntarily.  Her voice remained steady, her expression fierce, her brave front marred only by the streaks running down her face.  "And I can't call her and tell her that you're here, lurking.  She'll just lose it.  I can't do that to her.  So," she sniffed, scrubbing angrily at her eyes with the heel of her palm, "This is it."

"I have a date tomorrow night, Spike.  With a real boy – like last time, but without fangs," she laughed, a little hysterically.  "He's nice and he's sweet and he has no fucking CLUE who my sister is, other than meeting her once on Moving-In Day.  And my other friends are all wonderful and I love them.  But I won't let you have them.  And I KNOW I'm repeating myself a lot, but I'm trying to make it VERY CLEAR how important this is to me!"  Dawn blazed at him, face burning.  She took another step towards him, arms out, and tilted her head back in challenge.

"If you're going to kill me, just do it.  I like you, Spike - but I can't risk that you'll lie to me, that this is all some elaborate plot to get back at Buffy.  And if I've got the chip-less you right, this should do it."  She reached up to her neck and savagely clawed at it sideways with her fingernails, ripping the skin and encouraging a slow trickle of blood to the surface.  She winced a little, but let the blood flow.

"So do it, before I totally lose my nerve and do something stupid like faint."  She closed her eyes, and Spike realized that the head-tilt hadn't been a challenge so much as an act of submission.  Devoid of the high-necked fleece jacket, her neck glowed luminously in the cellar, the single crimson track lengthening.  Her jawline trembled a little, but Dawn stood still, waiting.

She was brave, he thought, watching as she stood shivering.  He noted the way she'd prepared herself so immaculately, her hair, her clothes, the humble arsenal.  

Then, quick as lightening, he lunged.

TBC

*


	7. Turning Point

*

It all proved too much.  The rush of air from Spike's sudden movement hit her like a brick wall, and Dawn collapsed before he reached her, crumbling into a boneless heap on the cement floor of the basement.  Her head smacked the solid floor sharply, but she was already out, the combination of stress and lack of sleep having finally overcome her self-control.  

The metallic tang of her blood hung heavily around her, and for a moment Spike wondered if she hadn't cracked her skull as well.  He knelt down next to her for a closer examination, but there didn't seem to be any blood pooling.  So, he marveled, all of that scent must be coming from the gouges at her throat.  Sharp nails on the kid.  He leaned closer.  The angry crimson stripes welled up at him eagerly, taking advantage of Dawn's horizontal state to begin trickling in new directions.  Her neck was beginning to look like a topographical map; deep rivers forming streams, pooling unexpectedly here and there, dividing into ever-thinner rivulets as they progressed.  Fascinated, he studied the way it caught at some of the tendons in her throat, needing enough momentum to continue its journey.  He sighed in relief as one dammed trickle overcame its obstacle and sped freely to the ground.

Oh, fuck.  Spike shook himself, snapping out of his trance.  He couldn't tell how long he'd been staring at her.  She looked so awkward, stretched out on the floor like that, her left leg bent double under her.  He went to lift her, but shied away.  No, there was something else he'd have to do first.

He strode over to Dawn's belongings; the sunlight from the door had shifted considerably, which made Spike wonder again about how much time had passed.  He hovered over the collection, examining it, before carefully reaching down and picking up one of the perfume bottles of water.  Something else, though.  He picked up a stake and began to separate all of the items, searching for something in particular…

Ah!  Here we go, he thought, and gingerly grasped Dawn's crucifix by its silver chain.  He squinted at it; beautifully done, he realized.  Not exactly like her sister's, either – there was a Celtic sense about it.  Something inherently classic, and more than a little mythical.  He smiled to himself. This necklace definitely said "Dawn" more than it said "Buffy". 

He held it well away from himself as he peered back at Dawn's body.  Spike winced; the scent of blood was getting stronger now, and the wound on her leg seemed to have opened up again as well.  He breathed shallowly through his mouth, trying to block out the iron taste of the air.  The perfume spritzer wouldn't be enough anymore; he tossed it onto Dawn's discarded fleece and picked up the Poland Springs bottle instead.  The plastic crackled warningly in his hand.  "You'd better be what I think you are," he muttered to it under his breath, and walked back to Dawn.

Hmmm.  He looked from the necklace and water to the form of the unconscious girl.  "No two ways about this, I suppose," he breathed, and shrugged.  He quickly grasped the top of the squirt-bottle between his front teeth and popped the spout up, choking a little as a few unexpected drops of moisture sprayed into his mouth.  He spit violently – forgot about that little side-effect of squirt-bottles, he thought in irritation.  His eyes were tearing up, but he strode over to Dawn's head, taking advantage of the distracting pain to take the next step.

He pointed the bottle straight down at her and squeezed.  His aim was perfect, the stream of water striking Dawn's wound precisely.  He watched impassively as the water sluiced through the rips in her skin, diluting the maroon of her blood until it faded to a watery pink.  The excess water spread out beneath her on the floor, a growing puddle that began to soak into her t-shirt as well as creep through her hair.  Spike hefted the water bottle, tilting it upright.  About half-full, he guessed.  He absently turned to her right leg and doused it as well, causing the sodden cotton to cling to her shin.  Better safe than sorry.  Spike backed up against the pillar again, affording himself a clear view of the entire situation.  Namely, Dawn stretched out and bleeding in a pool of water.  Bloody hell.  He set the bottle on the ground beside him, and reconsidered the crucifix dangling from his fingers.

Spike looked at Dawn, paused, and then looked back at the necklace.  "Shit," he sighed, staring at the mess he had made.  The blood was already overcoming his attempt to dilute it; as he watched, a single droplet made a track down Dawn's neck.  More would follow soon, and he knew he should just get it over with now, while he still could.  Spike quickly strode over and crouched beside the teenager, carefully avoiding any splashes of holy water his boots might kick up.  Not that it would really matter, considering what he was about to do.  He chuckled grimly, carefully arranging the ends of the necklace in his left hand, his right hand twitching nervously.  He stared at the delicate fastener grasped between his thumb and forefinger and gritted his teeth.

Bugger, this was going to hurt.

He quickly jammed his left hand under Dawn's neck, grimacing as the droplets of water clinging to Dawn's hair and neck scorched his palm.  It was simpler to focus on the sensations on his palm; the pain on the back of his hand was almost unbearable, given that it was practically submerged in the puddle of water he'd created under her.  His fingers snagged in her ponytail and he cursed, desperately trying to get the chain into a position from which he could fasten it.  The crucifix rattled, slipping silkily along the chain, and Spike flinched as it came to rest on the inside of his wrist.  

Finally, after what seemed like hours, Spike saw the glint of silver on the other side of Dawn's neck.  He darted his right hand around, plucking the end of the chain from the numb, raw fingers of his left hand.  He yanked his left hand sharply from under Dawn's head, jostling her slightly, and winced at the bubbled flesh the emerged.  This was worse than he'd expected, he thought as he determinedly bent to his task, ignoring the spectacular appearance of his hands.

She was bleeding freely again, and it was torture for him to have to crouch so close over her, urgently forcing his burned and blistered fingers to maneuver the dainty mechanism that held her necklace together.  His hands were almost as red as her neck, he noted absently as he heard the fastener click into place.    

Gasping, he scuttled away from her, retreating back to the pillar and leaning against it weakly.  Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of the Poland Springs bottle.  Grunting, he pulled it to him and pointed it in Dawn's direction.  His aim was off, but after a couple of tries he managed to strike her neck again.  The splash of red disappeared, and he collapsed back against the pillar, exhausted.  

He wanted nothing more than to sleep, recuperate, heal his self-inflicted wounds and get the fuck out of this town.  But Dawn was still laying there, helpless, and he kept his eyes open, watching her.  The sun had set, and the square of sky visible through the basement door glowed an eerie cornflower blue.  Spike buried his head in his hands and tried to think.

Holy FUCK, that hurts, Dawn thought as she slowly came to.  Her head throbbed warningly and she stayed very still, wary of inviting more pain.  "If you're hurting, it means you're not dead," Buffy often reminded her, and Dawn winced.  Definitely not dead, then.  

She tried to analyze her situation, keeping her eyes closed.  Well, she was cold, that was definite.  And wet.  Had he dumped her in a sewer somewhere?  Or a swamp?  But the ground under her felt way too solid to be natural, and besides, her ears told her that she was in an enclosed space.  A cellar?  Oh my god, he'd left her in the cellar.  

But back to the wetness… he must have dropped her in a puddle, because she could feel the water at the back of her scalp, barely.  And her shin was cold, but she wasn't quite sure if it was wet or just another side-effect of the glass she'd fallen on the night before.  She dismissed it and moved on in her examination.

Her neck.  Suddenly she shocked rigid, and a jolt of pain throbbed through her skull.  It was unbelievably sore, and COLD.  She moved her head experimentally… she couldn't feel a scab or crust on her throat.  Oh, shit, she was still functioning, freezing cold and her wound wasn't scabbed over… Panic welled in her chest, and she frantically wetted her mouth.  Was that blood she tasted?  

A groaning, wailing sound ripped from her involuntarily.  She'd been turned.  The only possibility she hadn't thought of.  How long did she have until the demon took over?  Her eyes flew open – her stakes.  She might still have her stakes, or even the holy water… Buffy had killed a vamp when it swallowed holy water, right?  God, it would hurt, but it would be worth it.

She groggily dragged herself up on one elbow and tried to find the light from the doorway, but it was gone.  She winced as her head throbbed again, but gamely began to crawl to where she thought her weapons might still lay.

"Awake, I see."

Dawn whirled at the humorless voice, and her vision exploded.  Bursts of light peppered her and she clung onto consciousness grimly, vowing not to pass out and lose control again. She wasn't totally surprised when she felt Spike lift her, ignoring her protestations, and carry her into another room.

He'd set himself up in the manager's office, it seemed.  The cement room was small, but Mr. Bruckert apparently kept long hours; in the corner of the room behind an old set of filing cabinets he'd set up a low cot, and a comfortable-looking easy chair was shoved into a corner near a rickety-looking 13-inch television.  It still had rabbit-ear transmission aerials, Dawn noted fuzzily.  The room lurched and swayed, and Dawn shut her eyes tightly.  She was determined not to faint.  

Spike set her on the bed unceremoniously, then turned and began to pull things out of a cupboard, ignoring her completely.  Dawn reached up to her throat gingerly, wondering if she'd have scars.  Buffy never got permanent scars, she'd noticed.  Bitten – what, three times was it now?  And no scars.  She started as her fingers caught on something unexpected.  Something metallic.  She grasped the chain, peering down until she saw her cross dangling.  She touched it wonderingly, then pressed it hard against her breastbone.  Nothing happened.

"So – I'm not a vampire?" she breathed, more to herself than anything.  But Spike whirled to look at her, his expression angry.  Very angry.

"Not for lack of trying, you're not," he spit out.  

"My head hurts…" she breathed, not realizing she'd spoken aloud.

"You fainted, you silly chit – probably bit your tongue when you hit the ground, I wouldn't wonder."  That would be the taste in her mouth, then… Spike grabbed a blanket off a shelf and chucked it at her violently.  Dawn caught it, shrinking back against the cold wall of the room.  "What the hell are you playing at, Dawn?  What the fuck was that back there?" He was tearing the inside of the cabinet apart, Dawn thought.  She swallowed nervously.

"I – I needed to know," she stuttered, watching him carefully.  He stopped, still with his back to her, and braced his forearms on the edges of the open cabinet.

"Know what, exactly?" The words rumbled deep in his chest, and he directed the words at the floor, head bowed.  Dawn bit her lip.

"I needed to know what you'd be like, without the chip."  She twisted the cross around her neck and pulled the blanket tighter.  "I had to be sure."

"Sure."  Spike turned to her, and she was surprised to see how anguished he looked.  And hurt.  Her heart dropped.  "So why the game of dress-up?  Why march in here, only to put on your little show and make your little speech?"  He dropped his head again, shaking it gently.  "Dawn… why didn't you just ask?"

The simplicity of it seemed almost laughable.  She leaned forward earnestly.  

"Spike, I had to know!  And I wanted you to be off your guard, I wanted to do it my way."  She suddenly realized how petulant she sounded, and rephrased.  

"I didn't want to do this armed, but what if you'd attacked me the moment I'd stepped in here?"  Spike glared at her, but she looked at him frankly.  "Don't look at me as though it hasn't happened before."  He sighed.

"But the sacrificial-lamb bit, Dawn?"

She flushed.  "I didn't plan it that way," she admitted.  "If you'd attacked me when I came in here, I'd've tried to get away."  He nodded.  "And then I would've moved back to Sunnydale tomorrow.  No questions asked."  She shrugged.  "That way there'd be no reason to go after my friends here."

"But I didn't attack you," he reminded her, and she sagged against the wall.

"Yeah, that was the more complicated part," she muttered.  "If you didn't attack me immediately, that still meant that you could just be biding your time.  Spike, I remember you before you had the chip.  You weren't nice."

Spike nodded.  He didn't have anything to add to that particular argument.  Dawn hurried on.

"But if you wanted me, I was going to let you have me.  I mean," she amended, "I thought I'd make you an offer that Evil Spike couldn't refuse."  She reached up to touch her throbbing neck.  "If you killed me, you wouldn't have to go after my friends.  And if you didn't…"  She shrugged, a little grin on her face. 

"Not so simple, Nibblet."  Spike still wasn't looking at her, his stare fixed on the ground.  He was leaning against the desk, his arms folded loosely across his chest, and Dawn dreamily realized that his sweater was one of the army-regulation styles, like the ones that Riley used to wear, the ones with those weird cloth patches… she decided not to mention the similarity.  He startled her by glancing up sharply, and she jumped.

"Dawn, I don't want you ever, EVER to take a risk like that again," he gritted out, his words evenly spaced but his stare intense.  Dawn started to object,; he talked right over her.  

"NEVER go into a situation alone, thinking you've got all the answers."  He pushed off the desk and pulled a folding chair out, settling himself only a foot away from where she was sitting.  He leaned forward, and Dawn flashed back to the few times she could remember her father angry with her.  The squirming feeling in her stomach was the same, she realized.  Spike leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his hands dangling limply.  They looked kind of funny, she thought, but Spike's posture demanded eye contact, so she decided to ask later.

"I left last night because you were in danger," he said matter-of-factly.  "You were bleeding, I was hungry, and I hadn't fed on human blood in about a week."  Dawn's eyes widened, and he shook his head.  

"That's where I had to go, Bit.  I have a source over in the city, he's got a pretty regular supply of human blood.  I've had to alternate with pig's blood since the chip came out, keeps everything steady.  And no, I don't know where it comes from," he added irritably.  "But I'd assume a hijacked hospital delivery or something of the sort, they come in the same kind of bags."  

"So… that's why you had to get it before we met up?" she quavered, unsure of where this conversation was headed.

"Didn't want to get peckish with you around, love," he admitted, smiling a little.  Then he regained his focus and glared at her sternly.  "All of which would've made one hell of a mess if you'd come marching in here, gushing plasma, when I'd been on a steady ration of butcher's blood!"  He jumped up again and began pacing.  

"I didn't know…" Dawn breathed, twisting at her blanket.  

"Of course you didn't!  Been living with that ruddy sister of yours too long, gotten into her habits," he grumbled.  "And what if I HAD turned you just now?  Don't you remember ANYTHING about my kind?  You'd've turned right around and killed all of your friends anyway, which would've been much more amusing and saved me a whole lot of trouble."  He shook his head.  "Sodding women."  

He spun again, a new thought on the tip of his tongue.  "The only reason I wanted to meet with you alone in the FIRST place was so that I could tell you about the chip calmly, so we could avoid all this!"  He laughed sharply.  "Somewhere neutral, with loads of people but no one else listening to our conversation; somewhere you would feel secure, just so this bloody well WOULDN'T happen!  DAMN!"  He kicked an empty plastic crate into the corner where it crashed into a mop.  

"I'm sorry," Dawn whispered.  She felt foolish and embarrassed, and the hiccups in her throat were slowly giving way to an entirely more pathetic series of sobs.  She kept replaying it in her head, getting redder with every viewing – her marching in there, cutting herself, fainting like a little girl and then waking up and accusing Spike of turning her.  What a fool.  She tried to hide her face in the rough blanket, holding her breath to smother the sounds.  

Spike stopped pacing and looked over at her.  She looked miserable.  

Good! 

But she'd begun to sob like her heart was broken, ragged little gasps that she struggled to contain, and his rage began to subside.  She's only seventeen, he reminded himself a little guiltily.  And she's just trying to be like her big sister… He rolled his eyes and sat down next to her on the bed, pulling her against his chest and tucking her head under his chin.

"Ah, Bit, I'm sorry – I get worried about you sometimes.  You were trying to protect your friends, it was all just a little," he paused.  "Misguided?"

Dawn snuffled into his sweater.  "It was STUPID, Spike!  I thought it was such a good idea and it put you into such a horrible, horrible situation…" she screwed up her face.  "And I looked so DUMB!"  She curled up against him tighter, anguished.  Spike held back a smile.  Just like a teenager, he thought – be more worried about how they'd looked, rather than the fact that they could've died.

"Sweetling, don't worry, it's okay now," he soothed, and then pulled her away from him to look her in the eye.  "As long as you promise never, ever, EVER to do it again.  Right?"

"Right," she gulped, and cast her eyes down.  That was when she got a full view of his burned hand resting in his lap.  "Oh my GOD, Spike!  What happened?"

Spike cleared his throat gruffly.  "Well, you were unconscious for a while, and you were bleeding…"  He pressed his lips into a thin line, then bowed his head.  "I kept dousing you with your holy water bottle over there," he gestured to the almost-empty Poland Springs container standing on the desk.  "And then I got your necklace on you.  Just in case."  He shrugged self-consciously.  

"But you poured the water on yourself?" Dawn asked incredulously.  She had taken both of his hands in hers and was gently examining them.  She'd never seen such severe burns, and she'd guess they'd been healing for about an hour already.

"No," Spike hedged. But Dawn wouldn't let it rest, and he groaned.  "I didn't want to touch you while you were bleeding," he explained.  "So I got all your blood mixed with the water, and THEN put the necklace on."  

Dawn stared at him.  "And now your hands look like this."

"Worked, didn't it?" Spike grumbled.  He took his hands out of Dawn's grasp and cradled the on his lap again.  She looked at his bowed head and jumped off the bed, marching over to the cabinet Spike had ransacked.

"What are you doing?"  He called after her.

"Looking for first aid stuff.  This counts as a restaurant – they're required to have it by law."  She knelt and reached back for a rusty green toolbox, dragging it out onto the floor.  Spike made some protest in the background, but she ignored him completely.

"Gotcha!"  She held up a package of bandages and an economy-sized tube of antiseptic.  "Now, hold out your hands."

"Dawn, I don't need any of that stuff..." Spike grimaced as she spread the salve on his palms and then directed him to turn his hands over.  He did so reluctantly; she sucked in her breath as she saw how deep the burns went.  She gently began to wrap his wounds, and Spike noticed how expertly she managed the task.  Exactly how injured had Buffy been getting, for Dawn to have had so much practice?  He shook his head at the unwanted thought.

"There, all done, and I know that you don't think it will help, but it makes ME feel a whole lot better," Dawn chirped as she admired her handiwork.  

Spike smirked at her.  "And that's what matters, of course."

Dawn immediately looked contrite.  "I'm really sorry, Spike."

He gazed at her.  She'd grown up so much since he'd last seen her, but he could still recognize the little girl he'd become so fond of.  Trying so hard to be an adult.

"Forgotten, Nibblet."  She burrowed against him and he kissed her forehead, the two sitting in comfortable silence.

Suddenly, Dawn gasped.  "Oh my GOD, what time is it?"

"Night?"  Spike supplied.  He didn't have a clock handy, and the sun had been down for quite a while.  Dawn looked at him, frantic.

"I have to get home!  Alicia will FREAK if I'm gone too long, and I've got two exams tomorrow and I haven't even LOOKED at the sample questions… Do you think the buses have stopped running yet?!?"  She jumped to her feet, panicked.

"Van's out back," Spike sighed, struggling to his feet and clumsily scooping the keys off of the desk.  Dawn gaped at him.

"Seriously?  I would owe you sooooo much…"

"Oh, don't even," Spike snorted, slipping on his jacket.  He handed Dawn a canvas rucksack as he strode out the door; she peered inside to find all of her carefully selected Slaying accessories nestled inside.  

"Come on, Bit, don't want to keep Alicia waiting," his voice echoed back to her.  She grinned and shouldered the pack, jogging up the stairs to join him.

TBC

*


	8. Altered Dimensions

*

"Dawn, I'm not sure I can take much more of this," Spike's voice was anguished and kind of echo-y, as though he was speaking into the phone with his head buried in his arms.  Which it probably was, Dawn supposed.  

"No no no, you have to listen to this part!" she shrieked, bouncing on the bed excitedly.  Alicia and Kirsten giggled at her from across the room, waving their spoons at her and making kissy-noises through their Ben & Jerry's.  

All three girls had piled into Dawn's bed on Saturday at noon, or as Alicia referred to it, "early".  The rest of the day had been dedicated to an excruciating, detail-by-detail breakdown of Dawn's date with Sean the night before.  With the exception of a single pilgrimage to the dining hall for supplies, consisting mostly of ice cream and Doritos, they hadn't budged since.  Eight hours on they were still in their pajamas, about to start watching "Empire Records", when Spike had made the huge mistake of calling.  The full magnitude of his error was beginning to sink in, though…

"Bit.  We've been on the phone for almost half an hour.  I now know Sean's middle name, the history of his hometown in Oregon, the brand of aftershave he wears and, repulsively, the way he kisses goodnight."  

Dawn shrieked in outrage.  "He's GORGEOUS!" She turned to Alicia and Kirsten.  "Spike says Sean's kissing is repulsive!"

"Right on, Spike!" shouted Kirsten, nearly losing control of her mouthful of ice cream.  Dawn growled at her playfully.  

"Spike!  Ask her about the sex!" Alicia crowed.

"What?!?"  Spike was suddenly all ears, and Dawn heard his chair squeak as he bolted upright.  

"Ask what they did in the caaaaaaaaar!" Alicia sang, Kirsten joining in on the last word.  Both girls collapsed on Alicia's bed laughing as Dawn shushed them frantically.

"No, they're kidding!  They're kidding, they're drunk, they're completely high on sugar."  Dawn scowled at her friends, but they were laughing too hard to notice.

"Dawn…"  Spike's voice had a warning tone to it, and she hurried to repair the damage.

"All we did was kiss in the car, NOT IN THE BACK," she hollered at Kirsten and Alicia, who were practically falling off the bed by this time.  "And he was a perfect gentleman."

"Hmm."  Spike didn't sound convinced.  "And you were a perfect lady, of course."  Oh.

"You might say that…" Dawn trailed off coyly, and Spike groaned on the other end of the line.

"No, no, don't want to bloody hear it.  Call your sister, she'll take it from here," he said, and Dawn's stomach lurched a little.  Call Buffy?  

"Well, she usually calls me, something to do with the rates," Dawn hedged, but Spike caught the unusual tone in her voice. He hesitated .

"She DOES know that you were out on a date last night?"

Dawn bit her lip.  "Uh, no."

There was a silence on the other end of the line.  "Oh."  Then, suddenly, it all came out in a rush.

"That's the kind of thing that sisters like hearing about.  And knowing your sister?  She'd want you to call."  Spike said it quickly; it sounded awfully formal coming from him, Dawn thought.  Then again, she realized, Spike didn't talk about Buffy much at all if he didn't have to.

"I guess," Dawn said glumly.  She fiddled with the fringe of her blanket.  He was right, of course. Buffy wouldn't just want to know - she'd be really hurt if she found out later from someone else.  But her phone calls home always made her feel a little bad afterwards...  She sighed.  "Okay, I will."

"Good."  Spike abruptly sounded businesslike.  "Right, love, I'm off.  You'll give a call before you go back to Sunnydale, right?"

"Oh!"  Dawn exclaimed, suddenly remembering.  She darted a look across to Alicia.  "Spike, Alicia's boyfriend's coming to pick her up on Thursday… can I come over to your place for the afternoon and early evening?  I don't want to interrupt the loooooooove-fest!"

"You skank!"  Alicia screeched, giggling madly.  "Now Spike's going to think I'm a total ho!"

"Alicia's a HO!" sang Kirsten.

"Good on you, Alicia!" Spike called through the phone.

"Spike says good for y – HEY!" Dawn suddenly registered the double-standard.  "So it's okay for Lise to get the lovin', but not me?"

"Yes."

"Biased judge," Dawn groused.  "That's it, you've insulted my boyfriend and now you're ganging up against me.  This phone call is so over."

"That's all it took?" Spike exclaimed.  "Let me write that down…"

"Shut UP!"  Dawn tossed the DVD over to Kirsten, who scrambled to start the movie.  "So I'll see you on Thursday, right?"

"Whenever you get sexiled, Bit."  His tone changed a little, becoming more serious.  "And Dawn?"

"Yeah?"

"Call your sister."

"Hey, Buffy?"  Dawn sat in the hallway outside her room, pulled up tight against the wall.  The dorm was pretty empty, what with it being a Saturday night.  As nasty as it had been, Dawn was glad that she and Spike had worked everything out on Thursday; he'd been the one to suggest she spend the rest of the weekend with her friends, brushing off her offer to keep her promise and meet him on Saturday night.  

She could hear Kirsten and Alicia inside the room, singing along to the movie, and sighed to herself.  Totally separate lives.  Alicia and Kirsten on the other side of the door, Buffy and Sunnydale on the other end of the line.  And then Spike, who half-existed in both.  Like living in overlapping dimensions – how could he do it so easily, while she struggled so much?

"Dawn!"  Buffy sounded surprised.  "Is everything okay?"

Suspicious as ever, Dawn thought.  "Yeah, everything's good."  Pause. "I thought I'd let you know I had a date last night."

"Oh, sweetie!  That's great!"  Buffy squealed excitedly into the phone.  "What's his name?  What's he look like?  Tell all, kid."

"He's about six feet tall, really sweet, really smart – he's got kinda sandy-blonde hair, but it's cut really well,"  Dawn sighed happily.  "He brought me ginger ale because he thought I was sick… He's gorgeous, Buffy."  She settled comfortably against the wall and began to ramble, listening to the delighted exclamations of her sister echo down the line.

Dawn never knew how Buffy would be on one of these phone calls.  Sometimes she seemed to strain to be like their mother, the tone Dawn privately labeled 'Stepford Mom'.  She'd use the same phrases, ask the same questions, and Dawn always hung up feeling kind of sick. It was like her sister was on autopilot, set for 'Dawn'. But at other times, Buffy was her usual giggly self.  It was the strangest thing.  

"So, will Sean be staying at school for Spring Break, too?"  Buffy asked in a confidential tone, and Dawn winced guiltily. 

"Uh, no!  He's going back to Seattle." 

Buffy was silent for a moment.  "Dawn, I'm sorry.  I wish I could come out there for the week, but I've got work."

"Yeah."  Dawn stared at the brickwork across from her.  Buffy hadn't even asked if Dawn might like to come home for the week; once she'd decided to get her sister out of Sunnydale, Buffy hadn't turned back.

"Xander!"  Dawn could hear the door slam shut on Buffy's end of the line.  "Dawn's got a boyfriend!"

"Hey, hey!"  Xander came on the line, all brotherly insinuation and goofiness.  "Will I need to be breaking any legs?"

"No, Xander, he's really nice."  Dawn rolled her eyes.  As much as Xander hated Spike, they sure acted alike sometimes.  She switched the phone to her other ear.  "How's construction?"

"Ah, constructing."  Xander brushed off the question, as he always did.  

"And is everything okay at home?  Nothing earth-shattering?"  She knew that was coming dangerously close to taboo vocabulary, but Xander was usually more lenient with that sort of thing than Buffy. 

He cleared his throat, choosing his words carefully.  "Nope, the crew's working fine, everything coming in well under schedule, no sick days – all-around goodness."  Dawn let her breath out as she decoded: there had been no close calls, and Buffy hadn't been injured recently. She and Xander had been using the same method of passing information for months - she was pretty sure that Buffy knew what she and Xander were really talking about, but they hadn't gotten into any trouble.  Yet.  

Then again, the reports had all been the same, so maybe Xander wasn't as reliable a source as Dawn thought.  This sudden realization stunned her, and she automatically replied, "Good, good," the paranoia in her mind running a million miles an hour.  She didn't even notice the awkward silence she'd caused until Xander cleared his throat loudly.

"So.  Dawn, nice to talk to you, only go out with the boyfriend with a crusty old chaperone, and I'm going to go grab a shower before dinner."  He paused.  "Back to you, Buff."  Dawn heard Xander pass her off, and she mentally geared up for the final stretch, closing off the suspicions that had suddenly cropped up in her brain.

"So Dawn – you'll be okay at school for the week, right?  There will be faculty there, and other kids around…"  Buffy asked worriedly.

"Oh, yeah," breezed Dawn – this part was straightforward at least.  "JP's here for most of the holidays, and I think there are some Chinese kids who live in the next building."  She scanned the hallway.  "Oh, and there's some girl from Maine who'll be here most of the time, but I think she'll be in her room with her boyfriend.  Busy."

"And I'm suddenly glad that YOUR boyfriend will be a continent away," Buffy commented wryly, making Dawn smile.  

"Any more tough exams?"

"Uh, not really, it's just the easy stuff now.  Smooth sailing.  As JP would say, 'easy as cake'."  

"Well, good luck."  A metallic rattling noise on the other end of the line caught Dawn's attention, and she suddenly hazarded a question.

"Going out on patrol tonight?"  She couldn't hang up without trying for a little news, she thought desperately.  The rattle ceased abruptly, and Dawn held her breath, waiting.

Buffy paused.  "Yeah, Dawn.  Aiming for an early night, though."  She had a hint of warning in her tone; Dawn was lucky to get that much out of her sister, she knew.

"All right.  Be careful."  Dawn chewed at her lip, imagining Buffy packing up for a night out on the town.  Coat, makeup, purse, flamethrower…

"Always am.  Don't worry about us.  Love you."  And she was gone.  

Dawn stared at the phone.  Alicia and Kirsten had stopped singing inside, and were talking over the movie in excited voices.  The rest of the hallway was quiet.  Dawn stood up and looked at her door.  

Then she turned, walking quickly down the hall, through the two sets of double doors, past the elevators, and stopped in front of room 418.  She knocked gently on the door and waited. 

But no one answered.  

The phone began to beep insistently in her hand, and Dawn stared at it for a moment before realizing: she hadn't hung it up.  She suddenly seemed to realize where she was standing and flushed red.  She spun about and darted down the hallway, skidding across the tiled floors as she ran back to her own room, where her normal, ordinary friends were waiting.  

Brian opened his door just as she ran past his room.  "Dude, was that Dawn?" he asked, looking behind him to where Kofi and Sean sat, playing video games.

"Where?" Sean jumped to his feet, but by the time he looked out the door, there was no one there at all.

"And I was totally going to tell Sean everything, Spike!"  Dawn lay on the bed in Mr. Bruckert's office, gesticulating madly at the ceiling.  She'd been desperate to talk to Spike since Saturday night, but it never felt right, talking about Hellmouthy-stuff on the phone.  Maybe she'd been watching too many CIA movies.

"Insane!  I didn't even know what I was doing until I was knocking on his door."  She propped herself up on one elbow and looked at the vampire, both eyebrows raised high.  "I think it's a side effect of repression."

Spike groaned at her.  "What did I tell you about applying high school psychology to real life?"  He fished another maraschino cherry out of the container at the side of his chair.  "It's a rotten habit, might as well leave it to the so-called professionals."  He tossed the candy-red fruit into his mouth nonchalantly, one eye on the television.

Dawn grimaced.  "Spike, how many jars of those have you eaten your way through so far?"

He looked down at the plastic tub ruefully.  "I have no idea, pet, didn't count when I found them in storage."  He snatched the lid off the desk and screwed the container firmly shut, giving it a final tap before shoving it into one of the filing cabinets.  "They're addictive, though."

"Guess we're lucky that vampires don't get fat," she mused, smiling brightly at his snort of disgust.  

"But you didn't tell him, right?"  Spike's response was a little delayed, but they'd been conversing like this all afternoon – jumps and starts, overlapping topics and distracted replies.  Time didn't really seem to matter today.  Dawn sighed.

"No – he didn't answer and I booked it."  She shifted a little, pulling herself further upright.  "But isn't it kind of unfair that everyone else gets to share with someone, and I'm the only one stuck with all the secrets?"  She pulled her legs up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her shins.  Spike turned and looked at her.

"You think the others don't have it rough?"  He seemed serious, and Dawn listened carefully as he continued.  "I'm not even talking about the Scoobs – I mean EVERYONE.  Sure, most people wouldn't get institutionalized as quickly as you and your friends," he smiled a bit to lessen the sting, "but everyone's got problems.  Everyone, Bit."  He turned back to the television. 

"Now who's Mr. Pop Psychology?" Dawn muttered.  Spike made as if to throw one of the cherries at her, but then realized he'd put the container away and settled for snarling.  On the television, Oprah and Dr. Phil agreed with each other about something.  Dawn fidgeted.  

"Buffy doesn't know I'm flying back tomorrow."  She said it all at once, nearly shouting in her effort to get the whole sentence out.

That caught his attention.  "What?"

"Buffy thinks I'm staying here for Spring Break, at school.  But I found a really good fare and got the ticket ages ago, it's for the whole week…" she trailed off weakly.  "I thought I'd just show up."

Spike considered her for a moment.  Then he shut off the television.  Dawn sucked in her breath, ready for a lecture, but Spike was just looking at her.  

"Okay."  He said it simply, like there wasn't much else to be done about it.  "What's the problem, then?"

Dawn exhaled in one big whoosh.  "Well… she never said I COULDN'T come home, but…"  

Spike nodded.  "You're not supposed to be anywhere near Sunnydale.  She's decided."

"Yeah!"  Dawn's forehead wrinkled, and she stared at her hands.  "She didn't even ask me.  It was like, 'Hey Dawn!  Dad and I figured out a way for you to finish high school in New Hampshire!  Isn't that great?'"  

Dawn slumped further down.  "And I wasn't exactly having the easiest time at school, some of the girls were being REALLY bitchy, so I thought sure, why not."  She looked up at Spike helplessly.  "I didn't know that she wouldn't let me come home."

"Ah."  Spike shifted uncomfortably, unsure of whom to champion.  He understood Buffy's intent, but she did tend to act a little heavy-handedly… 

Dawn was picking at the lining of the cot, teasing the cotton fibers from the material in sharp yanks.  "Spike," she started, and then stopped suddenly, focused again on her petty vandalism.  Spike waited.

"Spike, I don't think they're telling me when bad things go down at home."  Dawn's voice was rough, and she kept her head down as she spoke.  "I thought Xander would tell me if Buffy got hurt, or if something went wrong, but…"  She stopped pulling at the cot and instead, brought both hands to her lap.  She looked lost, thought Spike.

"Xander's been telling me that everything's fine for almost nine months now," she said dully.  "Can you EVER remember Sunnydale being fine for that long, Spike?  I can't." She sighed deeply, and Spike realized that she felt betrayed.  True, in a way – if Buffy and Xander really were keeping things from Dawn, they were effectively cutting her out of the family.  

He scratched his jaw with his thumb.  "Dunno what to tell you, Bit."

But Dawn was done with being emotional. "Nothing to tell, really," she replied coolly, straightening her shoulders.  "I'm flying out tomorrow, I'll land in daylight, get a taxi back to the house and wait, I guess…  They'll just have to deal." They both looked at the blank TV screen out of habit for a couple of minutes, neither speaking.  

Then Dawn suddenly twisted towards Spike, looking at him pensively.  

"Spike, are you ever going to go back to Sunnydale?"  

Spike leaned back grimacing, as though he'd been waiting for the question.  He pulled one booted foot onto the edge of the bed and rested his arm on it, staring at his hands.

"Don't think so, love."  He answered quietly and seriously, and Dawn leaned against the wall, watching his profile.

"No offense, but it's a huge coincidence that I even ran into you."  He picked at his hands absently.  The worst of the burns had healed well, and now only white calluses remained.  Spike turned to look at her.  

"If I'd seen you first, I'd've left town," he told her honestly.  "New England's about as far from Sunnydale as I could get, if I wanted to keep my U.S. contacts up.  And I needed those," he chuckled.  Dawn didn't quite follow, but nodded mutely anyway.  Spike gave his head a shake, then grinned at her.

"So, plain answer?  No.  I'm not going back."

Dawn processed this, then reached out and pulled at the sleeve of his sweater almost shyly.  "But you'll be here when I get back from Sunnydale, right?"  She cleared her throat.  "I mean, you won't sneak away while I'm gone."

Spike watched her, but she didn't want to make eye contact.  He smiled.  

"No, love.  I'll not leave without telling you."  He rumbled the words low in his throat, letting them resonate, and Dawn grinned up at him brilliantly.  

"Thanks," she whispered, curling up on the bed beside him, head pillowed on the bunched-up blanket she'd wrapped herself in only a week before.  Spike hesitantly reached out a hand and brushed his fingertips lightly through her bangs, delicately pulling the shorter wisps away from her face, tracing her hairline.  She murmured happily and edged closer to him, making his throat catch.

She seemed so tiny, too young to worry about everyone else's problems. And he would try to prevent her from shattering under the pressure, no matter how long she needed him to be there for her.

Hell.  He had all the time in the world.

TBC


	9. Best Laid Plans

*

"My job has a lot of perks – I mean, flying around the world gets old real fast, there's only so many times you can go to Paris or Tokyo and not think, 'Damn, this old place again'," the thirty-something businessman across the aisle breezed, smirking.  He leaned heavily against the armrest and winked at Dawn. "But the conferences are short, and if I bring someone with me, it's not so much work as vacation."  

Dawn smiled tightly, looking out the plane window as they slowly climbed away from the airport.  Swatches of clouds whipped past the glass, and she tried to appear fascinated by the view.  Maybe then her self-appointed traveling companion would shut up.

"So, you in med school?  Law school?  Bet you're at one of those big Boston colleges - you look like a smart woman, and I can tell!" he chortled behind her.  Ugh.  No such luck.  

Dawn plastered a smile on her face and turned, once again noting the man's appearance.  Wet, she decided.  It was one of the only things that instinctively repelled her – wetness.  And this fine specimen had it all: shiny, watery blue eyes, beads of sweat around his brow… As she watched, a tiny sliver of pink tongue darted out to moisten his lips.  Dawn fought back her revulsion, trying to remain civil.  Thank god he hadn't taken off his suit jacket yet – the mere thought of the sweat stains made her squirm.  She covered, beaming at him widely.

"Actually, I'm a sophomore in high school in Maine." The lies were spun easily; over the years she'd become a master of the thin deceit.  Veneering, she termed it in her head.  Simple, really: take the truth, shift it ever-so-slightly to the left.  No need for elaborate webs…easier to remember this way, too.

"I'm going to visit my Dad – I haven't seen him in AGES, like, since fall!" she chirped, widening her eyes and pitching her voice a little higher than usual.  Like any other American teenager, Dawn knew her range: with a little effort, she could stretch from a mature 14-year old to a slighty naïve 22-year old woman.  Unfortunately, she'd misread the cues for this trip.  In her efforts to thwart well-meaning flight staff, she'd aimed too old and now had this letch on her case.  Dammit.

Dawn leaned conspiratorially across the aisle and whispered to her stunned-looking target.  "Dad's really protective - he didn't want me to take the plane on my own, but I'm almost a legal adult, like, you know?"  She pouted for good measure, but the businessman was retreating back to his side of the aisle hastily, his elbow connecting sharply with the stowed tray-table.  Sounded painful, Dawn thought.  Heh.

"Well, kiddo, I'm sure the stewardess will take good care of you.  Enjoy the movie, have a good time with your Dad," he nodded at her, quickly turning to ruffle through the briefcase on the seat beside him, shutting her out completely.  Dawn rolled her eyes and twisted back towards her window.  She swallowed once, hard, popping the pressure in her ears.  Long flight ahead, then.

Departing from Boston was weird, she thought.  The way the plane was almost in the Boston Bay by the time it left the tarmac, the amount of Atlantic that stretched out to the horizon.  The plane itself was practically empty at this time of day; not many wanted to head to California in the early afternoon, it seemed, and Dawn had found herself the sole passenger in her entire row.  Maybe she'd stretch out a little later, she mused.  Some of the other passengers had already done so, flipping up the intervening armrests and pulling little sleep-masks from their bags.  Many of them looked like corporate people, on their way to meetings.  Too jaded to enjoy the flight, thought Dawn.  Pity.  

The ride down to Boston with Sean had been fantastic.  Music blasting, singing along at the top of their lungs, Dawn suddenly understood the thrall of the Road Trip.  The four-hour drive had gone by in a flash.  Dawn smiled to herself a little; getting a kiss at every red light had been quite the incentive to make the stretches in between to go by faster.  She wrapped her arms around herself and tried to remember the feeling of being around him, how he made her entire body electric.  Too bad they hadn't been on the same flight out to the coast, but she'd see him again in a week.

The screen in the headrest of the seat in front of Dawn flickered to life and began to count down to the first movie screening.  Dawn groaned inwardly, remembering her promise to Lise.  Anything but 'Corelli's Mandolin', she prayed silently.  This flight was annoying enough already.

Outside the window, the plane had finally made it through the heavy cloud-cover and Dawn could see the sun beaming brightly.  Bizarre, she thought.  It was so dark and rainy below, but once you got past that layer…  It looked like a painting of heaven, all sunlight and white puffy clouds that seemed dense as a layer of cotton wool.  Two different worlds. She felt the plane lurch a little as it leveled off a little and sensed the pressure building up in her ears again.  

She was bending down, fishing a stick of gum out of her backpack when she felt the first shudder.  She paused, still crouched, her seatbelt biting into her hips.  Turbulence?  The other passengers had felt it, too, lifting their blindfolds and looking around warily.  Dawn sat up in her seat and peered out the window curiously. 

A stewardess trotted by towards the cockpit, whispering assurances as she went.  Everything looked pretty level, Dawn guessed… the clouds on the horizon were flat, the sun partially blocked by the left wing of the plane.  Maybe a thermal had jostled them or something.  Not that she knew what a thermal was, actually…

And then, as though in a movie, Dawn saw one of the left engines burst into flame.  It exploded, literally.  Sheets of metal whipped off of the wing as the orange glow of the blast subsided, and she could see right down into the guts of the engine, the turbines rattling uselessly in the wind.  Dimly, she was aware that some of the other passengers were screaming.  Her stomach was thrust violently into her throat as the plane began to lose altitude, but Dawn was motionless, transfixed by the view out her window.  The cabin suddenly felt cold, and yellow cones tumbled from the overhead lockers – oxygen, she registered dimly.  The plane lurched; Dawn felt the belt pressing down across her thighs, as though her seat was dropping out from under her.  Clouds streamed past the window and her eyes darted, trying to track them, making her head ache and her eyes burn.  

She could just recognize that the moist man from across the aisle was leaning across towards her, trying to fit a mask to her face, when everything went white, then black, then out.

Spike burst through the doors of the hospital at a run, startling the few people in the waiting room.  He quickly picked out the registration desk and marched over to it purposefully, causing the candy striper behind the desk to gasp and scoot out of arm's reach.

"Sheila!" the girl's voice was slightly panicked, but Spike wasn't in the mood to take his time.

"Dawn Summers, car accident, I got a call," he gritted out, and the girl scrambled to enter the information into her computer.

"Yes, sir," she stammered, fixing her eyes on her screen rather than the man in front of her.  He was practically crackling, and obviously none too patient.  The girl exhaled in relief as she found the file number easily and jumped up to rifle through some clipboards behind the desk.

"Yes, sir, she's just been admitted to the main hospital from the ER, so she might not even be in her room yet, we've only just gotten the paperwork here."  The stuttering girl took a closer look at the clipboard she was holding, looking confused.  "Did you say car accident?  Because I think…"

"Evie, put that down."  Spike turned to see another volunteer marching towards reception, her face set in irritation.  Sheila was a solid woman of 65, and didn't appreciate being rushed.  Her pink volunteer smock stretched tightly across her chest and hips, giving her the air of a well-caulked battleship. Even as she looked at Spike, the resentment was clear on her face – another pushy punk, she thought.  She tugged at her smock, eyes narrowing.  She knew how to deal with this type; take him down a peg, make him respect the hospital's authority.  She would let him know that punks had no privileges here.  But first, she'd have to set that teenager straight about a couple of things… Evie quailed at her approach and set the clipboard down on the desk, one hand gingerly resting across the paper.

As Sheila passed by him, Spike scented fresh cigarette smoke trailing behind her.  Interrupted her break, had he?  He leaned a little further over the counter, trying to get a better look at the clipboard, but Evie had unintentionally obscured the entire chart with her hand.  He ground his teeth as Sheila made a show of ignoring him, advancing on the young volunteer.

"Now what did I tell you?"  Sheila shoved a couple of chairs out of her way, wedging herself through the small space with some difficulty.  "I don't know why they keep sending you young kids up here – know how to use the computers, sure, but pay no attention to the regulations!" Evie began to sputter apologies, but Sheila wasn't in the mood to hear them.  "No, don't bother saying anything now.  Never give out ANY information without identification," Sheila snapped bitterly, waving Evie aside and going for the clipboard.

But Spike had assessed the situation and taken his opportunity.  In one sharp movement he twitched the top sheet out from under Evie's hesitant fingers and stepped well back from the desk.  Sheila shouted angrily from the other side of the long counter, but couldn't possibly make her way back through the maze of chairs at any speed, and her bulk already had Evie backed in a corner.  Spike ignored both women as he began to jog along the hallway towards the Pediatrics ward, scanning the sheet.  Room 15b, Cressiden Wing.  He could do that.

She looked so frail.

Spike stood outside of the door, all his pent-up energy gone.  Through the tiny plexiglass window, he could just make out Dawn's form on the hospital gurney, her hair contrasting starkly with the sterile white surroundings.  An IV tower obscured his view, but at the same time, Spike was reluctant to step through the door and get a better look.

He glanced down at the chart crumpled in his hand.  It bore Dawn's name, her age, a few other details that could be assessed on sight… and, Spike noted, his phone number.  He twisted the paper in his hands, cursing Sheila from afar.  The rest of the chart would've told him what was wrong with his girl.  The rest of the damn chart would've given him a little warning, let him know what to expect.  He shut his eyes tightly, one hand on the door.  No use wishing now.  The door opened with a sucking sound, and the scent of ammonia and antiseptic assaulted his nose.

"You need, like, fake tan or something."  The voice was weak and strained - but definitely conscious.  Dawn blinked up at him dazedly, but with a wry smile tugging at her lips.  The sight of Spike in the brightly-lit hospital was oddly amusing to Dawn.  It probably had something to do with all of the painkillers she'd been given over the last three hours, but she couldn't help giggling.  She'd never seen him in such bright light… .actually, he looked kind of ashen, she mused.  Then again, everyone looks a little funny under fluorescent lights.

Spike didn't respond, too busy looking over every inch of her.  The most obvious injury was the cast on her arm, bound tightly across her chest in a sling – he had seen that as soon as he stepped into the room.  An IV needle fed into her right hand, the entry point hidden under layers of bandages.  A starched sheet was pulled up to her waist, but he could see an unusual lump down by her right ankle.  An aircast, maybe?  Someone had pulled her hair back into a vaguely controlled ponytail, which only emphasized the shiner on her left eye.  Spike squinted; both eyes, on second thought.  But other than that, she was in one piece.  He let go of all the awful images he'd concocted on the long drive down to Concord and looked up at the laughing girl. 

"Well, you're pretty damned chipper for someone who looks like hell."

Dawn snorted, then winced.  "Yeah, well, look who's talking."  She struggled to sit up further in her bed, but Spike pinned her shoulder to the mattress with one hand and waved a remote in her face.  She grimaced and pushed the button that would tilt the backrest further forward. "Spike, I'm okay.  Seriously, I'm just a little rattled."

He nodded, but kept looking at her, as though waiting for a more honest admission.  Too bad, she thought.  Feeling high as a kite right now, not a care in the world – nothing more to tell.  She grinned at him toothily; Spike wasn't in the mood for laughing.  

"I should never have let you drive down here with him – should've done the damn thing myself."  He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, his left fist bunched in the blanket.  "That boyfriend of yours around?"

"What?"  Dawn stared at him, then shook her head.  "No, no – he's probably in Seattle.  He lives there."  She leaned back, her earlier energy expended.  

"Oh, well that's nice," he growled.  "At least Red stuck around last time."  Dawn's eyes widened at the rumble in his voice, her forehead creased.  She looked a little wary, and extremely confused.  But exhaustion overcame her curiosity - she groaned and closed her eyes again, turning her head away from Spike.

"Oh, whatever - don't talk about Sean anymore, I don't want to talk about any of this anymore," she grunted, scowling.  Fine, thought Spike.  She didn't want to talk about the sod who crashed the car, fine.  He could always move onto other matters.

"I notice that my phone number's on here – and no one else's."  Spike brandished his stolen paperwork at Dawn, and she shrugged.  Her moods changed at an alarming rate, Spike noticed.  Fast on the heels of that observation he saw the way she was trembling slightly, as though tired beyond endurance, and he suddenly realized that now might not be the time. 

"Later, love," he added softly, reaching down and brushing the center of her palm with his fingertips.  She reflexively curled her fist around his fingers and held tight.  Like an infant, Spike thought absently.  He swallowed tightly and stroked the back of her wrist with his thumb. 

Dawn noticed his change in attitude and relented; she wasn't really understanding half of what he said through the drugs, and she was pretty sure she wasn't making much sense, but she weakly gave it a try.  She struggled to keep her eyes open.  

"Sorry about the phone call - I wasn't really thinking at that point," she admitted.  "Concussion, something like that."  She pouted.  "I'm woozy…"

"That's because you should be asleep."  A voice from the door caused Spike to spin about quickly.  "And your friend might be providing a little more excitement than you need at the moment."  The white-clad doctor raised an eyebrow at Spike, obliquely referring to the performance at the front desk.  Spike straightened up defensively, stepping a little closer to Dawn.  

"Oh, Dr. Prescott!  Don't worry, Spike's British," Dawn tried to explain, but her mouth was no longer cooperating with her mind and the sentence earned her blank stares from both men.  She topped the statement off by waving her arm a little too energetically and nearly toppling the IV pole.  Spike lunged to grab it, righting it with a glance at the doctor.  

"Bloody hell – how hard did she hit her head?" he muttered as he tucked Dawn back in.  She snorted at his words, then pouted and scooted further down in the bed.  

Across the room, Dr. Prescott's posture was deceptively relaxed, leaning against the doorframe leading to the hallway.  If Spike hadn't been so preoccupied, he might have noticed how closely the doctor was observing the ongoing scene. 

Dr. Prescott noted the way the young man contained his patient's movements efficiently, familiar motions that signified a long acquaintance. Dawn grumbled a little at her confinement, but one quick look from Spike silenced her. The way his hands swept down her arms, drawing them back onto the bed while surreptitiously checking for scrapes or bumps.  When he reached her wrists, Spike gently brushed the IV bandage with his thumb to see it was secure.  

He was an interesting conflict, thought Dr. Prescott – at first glance, Spike seemed to be all angular sharpness.  But now, with this girl, he had softened.  His movements belied his appearance, smooth and graceful, boneless. The tough-guy act that Sheila had reported (shrilly, as usual) was barely notable in the presence of Dawn; Dr. Prescott silently watched their interaction, trying to puzzle out the relationship between the two.

Spike didn't seem violent, which was a relief – Sheila's histrionics had caused Dr. Prescott to head for Dawn's room at a sprint, his stethoscope trailing behind him, expecting the worst.  When he'd peered through the tiny window and seen the look of delight on his patient's face, he'd decided to catch his breath before confronting the young intruder.  But after his interruption, the situation had gotten even more confusing.  Spike's accent ruled him out as an older brother, and he was far too young to be Dawn's father.  He also didn't seem to be a boyfriend, for all his protective instincts.  The level of comfort between them, the way Spike hovered, the way Dawn trusted him completely… Dr. Prescott mulled.  A mystery, indeed.

Dawn murmured happily as Spike neatly folded her arms under the covers and reached up to her brow, clearing the wispy fly-away hairs from her eyes.  The practical movement turned into a repetitive caress, running across her temple and down to her jawline.  Dawn leaned into his hand and sighed, closing her eyes.  And only then did Dr. Prescott see the young man's shoulders relax, the tension easing perceptibly.  Only then did Dr. Prescott feel that he could interrupt again.

"Would you like to discuss this outside?" he asked, opening the door and discreetly waving away the security team lurking by the elevator bay.  Spike's head jerked up suspiciously, his hand covering Dawn's again.  Protective, fatherly.  Dr. Prescott changed his approach.

"Dawn will be very tired for the next couple of hours," he confided quietly.  "We gave her some pain medication while setting her break, and it really would be best to allow her to sleep it off."  He watched Spike's face as he weighed the options. Finally, the dark head bowed to take one last searching look at Dawn, then nodded.  

He gestured to Dr. Prescott formally.  "After you, doc."  

TBC


	10. Handled With Care

*

"What's wrong with her?"

Spike had managed to hold back until the door closed behind him, so as not to wake Dawn.  He turned on the doctor grimly, backing the smaller man against the concrete wall of the corridor and causing the spectacled doctor to gasp.  In the presence of a determined Spike, Dr. Prescott suddenly felt a twinge of sympathy for Sheila - a sensation very alien to him.  

All signs of gentleness were gone.  The hands that had so carefully smoothed Dawn's hair were now balled into tight fists, the knuckles bulging underneath the skin.  Dr. Prescott was vaguely reminded of the way a snake eyed its prey, coiled and deadly, but perfectly still.  Spike stared at him blankly, not blinking, seemingly not breathing.  It was as though he could simply WILL a positive prognosis.  Dr. Prescott cleared his throat and took a deep breath.  He was not easily shaken, but this encounter was unnerving.

"I promise, I WILL get to Dawn's injuries, but first I'll have to ask: who are you?"

"Oh."  Spike's eyes twitched to the right a little, and the doctor noted the movement carefully.  A move to the right often signified that the speaker was going to get a little "creative" with the truth – this should be interesting.

"I'm a family friend," Spike decided.  Inside his head, he tried to reconcile that answer with the current Spike-Summers relationships. Joyce had liked him at the end; Dawn seemed happy to see him; Buffy… well, there wasn't much he could do about that one, he guessed.  Still, two out of three wasn't a horrible ratio.  He looked back to Dr. Prescott.  "Yeah – a friend from California."  

That explanation didn't have blood ties, though.  He saw the doctor's forehead crease and began to elaborate.  "A family friend from California, and I'm the only one on the East Coast.  I can probably tell you anything you need to know about her history, and I also have Dawn's routine down here pretty well.  She goes to school in New Hampshire, she was going to fly out to California this afternoon…" He tapered off, wary of saying too much.  Never a good idea, just giving away information.  He shot the doctor a sidelong look, wondering if his excuse had been enough.

Dr. Prescott sighed.  "Well, as you probably know, we don't usually discuss patients' condition with their friends, but Miss Summers did specifically say that you were to be kept informed."  Spike nodded, relieved.  Good girl.

"Did she give you any other numbers or contacts?" Spike asked hesitantly.  Buffy.  There was really no way around it; he was going to stay with Dawn until he knew she was all right, and if that meant being around when Buffy arrived… Well, he decided, so be it.  She wouldn't be overly pleased to see him, and he wasn't thrilled at the prospect of a reunion right now, but Dawn – she was the important part of the equation.  And so he'd stay.  Until he got sent away, and only Buffy or Dawn herself could do that.

"Her sister, when will she be here?"

Dr. Prescott looked at him blankly.  "Miss Summers told us that you were her guardian while she was in school – she asked us not to contact her family."  He looked at Spike suspiciously.  "Isn't that true?  She didn't give us her home contact information, but it won't take us long…"

"No," Spike hurriedly covered, shooting a look at the closed door.  Her guardian, eh?  An interesting twist.  "No, I'm her guardian.  It's just never been stated that formally, I suppose."  He ran a hand through his hair and bent his head to study the patterns on the tiled floor.  Guardian.  Buffy would love that one.  Oh, this was going to get complicated.

Dr. Prescott cleared his throat and started again, the wary look still on his face.  "Ah, yes.  Well.  To get back to your earlier question, I'd be happy to go through some of Miss Summers' charts with you…?"  

"Sure, yes, good."  Spike shoved his hands into his pockets, mind still racing at the implications of his new guardianship, but straining to focus on the litany of injuries the doctor was reading through.

"Well, she's managed to break her right arm; it seems like a re-break, as there's a calcium deposit around the site that would be consistent with a prior fracture…"

"Yeah, that happened in a car accident, uh, two years ago?"  Spike estimated.  "The girl's got no luck with cars, really."

The doctor shot him a strange look, but continued.  "Yes.  She's come very close to fracturing her right ankle as well, but it seems she'll get away with a severe sprain.  We've taken films from different angles, just to make sure, and we've also put an aircast on her – these are all precautionary measures, more than anything," he confided.  "Then there's the lacerations and bruising."

At that, Dr. Prescott seemed stumped.  He took a deep breath, re-reading his charts, took off his glasses to rub his eyes, and then settled for an eloquent shrug.  "Honestly, the injuries are completely inconsistent with the landing they endured, but she's got enough injuries for all the other passengers combined."

"Wait."  Spike held up his hand, stopping the doctor mid-chart.  "She was only driving down with her boyfriend, and that little shit's apparently on his way to Seattle.  Were there other cars involved?"

Dr. Prescott shook his head and adjusted his glasses, squinting up at Spike.  "I thought that we were crossing wires earlier," he said, exasperated.  "What exactly did they tell you when they called?"

Spike blinked.  "They said that Dawn Summers had been in an accident and I'd been listed as a contact.  Why?"  

"Dammit.  They're always too damn vague down there," Dr. Prescott muttered irritably.  He held his charts closer to his chest and looked Spike in the eye.  "Dawn was involved in an aircraft incident."

Spike was still.  He'd leaned forward to catch the doctor's words, but seemed to have frozen in place.  Dr. Prescott wondered if he'd gone into shock, unusual as that would be.  Spike's blue eyes were still focused on him, but he wasn't breathing, wasn't moving  - it was like the man had suddenly turned to marble.  

Then the words sunk in.

"Fucking hell!" Spike exploded.  His entire body twitched as he instinctively moved back towards Dawn's room, ready to burst in and... do what?  Reason returned; he'd already seen her, she was going to be okay.  Car accidents happen every day, but this?  "What happened?  Why haven't I seen anything on the news, heard anything on the radio?"

"Well, Dawn was the only one injured to any extent," Dr. Prescott said, spreading his hands in a gesture of confusion.  Apparently, he was just as stumped as Spike.

"What, she drew the short straw?  How the hell does that happen?"  Spike was pacing now, every fiber in him wanting to go back to Dawn and reexamine her, but also kicking himself for being so casual.  What had he said to her?  That she looked like hell?  Oh, god.

Dr. Prescott ventured closer to Spike, wanting to soothe him but unwilling to step into his path.  "I don't know, no one really knows.  An engine blew…"

Spike let out a sharp blast of air; words failed him.

"One engine out of four!" Dr. Prescott hastened to add, clipboard held up defensively against his chest.  He caught himself and tried to relax his posture.  "It's fine, though – planes can land safely with that kind of damage, it's just a rougher flight.  Usually, there are some minor injuries to all involved."  He took a breath and creased his forehead again.  "Usually."

Spike motioned helplessly.  He leaned back against the wall of the corridor across from Dawn's room, staring in through the window.  The sound of Dr. Prescott's voice droned on in the background; Spike vaguely registered the man's earnest gestures, his kind face.  None of it helped.  

Inside, Dawn slept on.  

"Eugh." Dawn propped herself up hesitantly, scrubbing at her eyes with the back of her hand.  "I feel disgusting."

Spike spoke up from the chair in the corner.  "You haven't slept enough, Bit.  But I was going to have to wake you soon anyhow."  He was stretched out in one of the hospital chairs, but he hadn't been sleeping.  His eyes were fixed on the lights of the parking lot outside, his fingers laced tightly and resting on his chest.  He looked… angry, actually.

"Spike?  Are you mad at me?"

"What?"  That caught his attention.  "No, no – sorry, love."  Spike rose gracefully from his seat and padded silently over to her bed.  And that really put Dawn on edge.  Grace from Spike usually meant that he was plotting something sly; it was like the plans in his head unconsciously translated into his movements.  She looked up at him doubtfully, waiting for him to continue.

"So, not a bloody car accident." Spike grimaced.

"No.  Plane.  Not fun." Dawn scowled and drew the covers closer to her chest.  She jolted suddenly.  "Oh my god – did anyone die?  What happened to the others?"  How could she have been so selfish, not to have asked?

"No injuries.  At all."  Spike said quickly, perching on the edge of the bed.  His shoulders dropped and he sighed audibly.  "Only you, and damned if I know why."

"Oh."  Dawn wasn't sure whether to be happy or sad.  Then she recognized the root of her conflicted feelings – Summers girls weren't supposed to be the only ones hurt.  They were supposed to be the ones to survive against all odds, survive apocalypses with barely a scratch… and she'd been done in by a mundane accident, the most fragile of all the passengers?  It wasn't just upsetting; it was vaguely embarrassing. 

"What happened, then?"

Spike cleared his throat.  "Well, I got this all from the doctor, so you'll have to ask him as well, but you lost an engine on the plane."

Dawn gasped.  "Oh my god – I remember that.  Fuck!"

"Dawn!"

"Sorry!"

They both blinked a little, confused by the exchange.  Dawn quirked her eyebrow at him, wondering if he really cared about the swearing.  In response he snorted and shrugged, then looked away, embarrassed. 

"Whatever.  You lot had a hell of a lot of turbulence on the way down, and the pilot had to make an emergency landing at a closed military base in Massachusetts.  But you were unconscious long before that, according to another passenger."  Spike watched Dawn carefully as he spoke, but she seemed to be accepting the information analytically rather than emotionally.  She nodded slowly, thoughtfully.

"And all of this?"  She gestured at her cuts and bruises, including a long slice right under her jaw that made Spike flinch.  Damn, he hadn't noticed that one earlier.  Any closer to her jugular and that injury alone could have finished her.  He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to focus.

"Bit, that's the problem.  You shouldn't have gotten anywhere near that many injuries.  There was a guy sitting right across the aisle from you, was real concerned, had his eye on you the entire time."  Spike's tone was exasperated.  "He put the mask on you when the cabin lost pressure, got you into the crash position and even got you out afterwards.  Nothing touched either of you, and he didn't even have to come into the hospital – the paramedics cleared him on site.  You shouldn't have been able to get ANY of those."  He gestured widely at her, the irritation clear on his face.

"Good to know," Dawn said wryly.  She winced as her IV drip caught on the sheets and readjusted herself.  "And yet, I'm the only one in the hospital right now.  Excellent.  The weirdness follows me."

Spike's eyes widened marginally.  "You think there was something funny going on."  His tone was dead and flat; Dawn was startled.

"No!  No, I was looking right at the engine when it blew, I don't think there was anything mystical happening," Dawn said, almost ruefully.  "It really came apart, but it looked like a movie effect – no gremlins crawling on it, no blue-flashy-energy stuff."  She'd take magical intervention over human error any day. 

But Spike was still tense, still focused.  He leaned closer to Dawn, his eyes directed down at the bedspread.  She was glad he wasn't looking right at her; sometimes, Spike could be a little too intense, and this looked like it was going to be one of those times.

"There's another little problem, something that might be more trouble than it's worth."  He spoke quietly, and Dawn strained to hear him.  "You now qualify as a special case."

"What, like a mental case?  Or are we talking about some sort of medical X-Files, like spontaneous human combustion?"  She snorted, but Spike shot her a look and she stopped.  "Oh, crap."

Spike continued.  "First of all, you shouldn't have been this banged-up by the landing.  There was nothing around you that might have caused cuts and bruises that match the patterns on you, and this," he gently fingered the cut along her throat, feather-light, so it felt more ticklish than painful, "This is just impossible in every way, as you were in a crash position."  He half-smiled, looking at her kindly.  "When the doctor told me about the slices, I figured you'd taken up the family tendency to travel with blades, but not even you would try to get a weapon through an airport security point.  Right?"  His tone carried a hint of warning, and Dawn nodded fervently.  

"You have no idea how long I was drilled in hand-to-hand before flying out here in the first place," she groaned.  "I've got…" she stopped, correcting herself.  "I HAD a couple of pieces in my stowed luggage - nothing too showy, just functional – but the most deadly thing in my carry-on was a hairbrush."

"Unless you were also carrying your lipgloss, which blinds enemies at a thousand meters." Spike smirked a little at her.

"Ha bloody ha."

Spike let her giggle for a moment before continuing.  "But nibblet, here's the tough part – there's no way you COULD have been injured to his extent, especially when all the other passengers got clean bills of health.  Some of them weren't even wearing seat belts; a stewardess got chucked around like a tennis ball and still walked out unscathed."  He roughly dragged one hand through his hair, making it stick up in odd directions.  Dawn absentmindedly reached out to smooth it back, her thoughts completely focused on the implications of Spike's words.

"Basically, love, they want to keep you in here and study you for a bit."  Dawn's expression changed from thoughtful to suspicious, and Spike decided to plow ahead.  "To make it all the worse, you've got a new condition that interests them immensely."

"What?  Am I sick?"  Her tone was slightly panicked, but determined.  Her face set in an expression that reminded Spike of something very familiar.  It was so odd; anxiety and panic and desperation that had all been schooled into something that resembled calmness.  As though she were trying to reassure him that she could handle what he was about to say… And then it came to him – Joyce.  She had learned that stoic expression from Joyce.  Spike reached out and grabbed her hand.

"No, Bit, you're not sick."  He tightened his grip on her hand; he would never let her get that ill, never let her slip away…  All at once he realized how close to breaking he was himself, and he snapped out of it.  The last thing Dawn needed was for him to dissolve on her.  The litany in his head went on, but he focused on Dawn, earnestly explaining all he knew.

"Remember that you've already broken that bone once?"  He gestured to her arm and she nodded, cradling it closer.  "It's going to mend just fine, but when they took the x-rays they saw something."

"Like…?  Just tell me!"  Spike's drama-queen tendencies were not appreciated at times like these, thought Dawn bitterly.  Then again, he didn't seem to be milking the situation; if anything, he was still figuring it all out himself.

"All right, sorry, it's this: they think you might have some sort of brittle-bone syndrome."  It all came out in a rush, and Spike winced at how harsh the phrase sounded.  He tried to explain. 

"It's got something to do with the calcium deposits in your bones, or something.  It wasn't around two years ago, last time you broke your arm, but it's something they're worried about now.  It means that your bones are going to be very delicate, that they will break very easily, I don't know the technical ways to describe it.  Dr. Prescott's gone off to talk to some sort of specialist about study or treatment or something, and I'm DEFINITELY not supposed to be talking to you about this right now, but I do have a reason."  He paused to see if anything was sinking in.  Dawn just sat there, massaging her arm in its cast.  "Dawn?  Love?  I'm sorry to be rushing you, pet, but there's things we need to talk about."

"Yeah."  Dawn shook her head, still stunned.  "Yeah.  Talk."

Spike looked at her doubtfully, but she just gestured for him to continue.  "Right, I don't like this situation.  The engine I can go along with, but the fact that everyone else got away healthy while you look like you've been roughed up by a biker gang?  Especially with the guy sitting next to you…"  Spike suddenly turned to stare at her.  "Was he okay?  Could he have done anything to you?"

Dawn's brow furrowed.  "No, I think he was okay, but I don't know – he hit on me, but as soon as I told him I was 14 he left me alone.  And he helped me with the mask, I remember that."  She turned the thought over in her head.  "No, I think he was kosher."

Spike nodded.  "Fine, then.  Fourteen?" She rolled her eyes.  "Right."  He cleared his throat.  "But Dawn – I'm also a little worried about something else…"

"My Key-deal." 

Spike nodded slowly, head down.  Dawn sighed deeply.  That was supposed to be left behind too, she thought bitterly.  No more Key-ness.  

"I don't want them finding anything…unusual," Spike said, "Especially when you're so far away from home.  I mean, I don't know what rights a 17-year old has in these matters, but the LAST thing I want to have happen is your sister has to bust you out of some government facility."  He laced his fingers again, his eyes fixed on a thumbnail.  

"So what do you think we should do?"  Spike looked up at Dawn as she spoke, and noted again how strong she'd become.  She'd always had this quality, of course, but she'd truly grown into it since he'd last seen her.  It was something she'd gotten from her sister, he guessed, but lacked Buffy's "my way or the highway" qualities.  Dawn listened, balanced, weighed.  And then decided, concretely and absolutely, on a negotiated plan.  He breathed in relief – she wouldn't ignore his suggestions, and she wouldn't insist on a foolhardy plan.  Dawn would simply negotiate the best approach, then adopt it with all her heart.  Probably a defense mechanism from growing up under Buffy's iron rule, but it was a good one to have.  He smiled.  

"Spike?"

The smile disappeared.  "We've got to leave."

Dawn nodded; she'd guessed as much.  She wasn't sure what rules applied between the ages of 16 and 18 either, but she was pretty sure that she wouldn't be counted as an adult.  And after any organization got hold of her… Besides, Spike seemed to have an idea of what to do.  "So first, we need to get out of here."  She looked down at her hand.  "You have any idea if this would be attached to a monitor or alarm?"

"Your IV?  No, it's not rigged…"  Spike pulled the IV tower closer to him, scrutinizing the leads.

"And you were talking like we need to do this quickly."

Spike nodded sharply.  "The specialist was paged as soon as they took your x-rays; he should be here within the hour.  I'd like to be gone before then."

Dawn pulled the neckline of her gown away from her body and peered down the front.  "Naked.  You know where they put my clothes?"

Spike jumped off the bed, scanning the room.  A part of him thrilled at Dawn's speed – no hand-holding here, then.  As he rounded the corner of the bed, he caught sight of a backpack in the corner.  "Hey – that yours?"

Dawn looked up, wincing, and Spike saw her drop the needle of the IV to the floor, still attached to the tower.  Her thumb pressed the point of entry on the back of her hand hard.  "I can't see from here.  You eat yet?"

Spike stumbled a little.  "Uh, yeah.  Full up."  His heart sank a little.  Was she that worried?  He picked up the bag and brought it over to her bed, where Dawn had begun to shred the bottom of her thin cotton gown into strips.  "Are we planning to make it look like you've been kidnapped by wild dogs?"

Dawn snorted.  "Dork.  I'm going to use it to wrap my hand."  And she was trying, true, but the cast hampered much of her movement.  Spike moved to help her, and then stopped.

"I'll help, if you want…" he trailed off, and Dawn picked up on his hesitation.  She also suddenly realized why.

"I wasn't worried you'd eat me," she said bluntly, extending her hand to him.  She began to root through her backpack awkwardly with her casted arm, leaving him to tend the IV mark.  "But I didn't want you to go all crazy because I was smelling bloody."

"Not much of a choice," he muttered, carefully twisting the cheap cotton around her fist.

"Tighter," she ordered.  She stopped rummaging and looked at Spike as he bent close to her hand.  She pushed him slightly and he looked up.  "If it bothered you, I thought I could sew it up or wrap it in plastic – wouldn't heal as fast, but wouldn't be as noticeable for you."

"Sew it?"

"I'm pretty good with a needle," she said flippantly.  

"With no anesthetic."

"Beggars can't be choosers."  Dawn lifted her half-bandaged hand again, pointedly drawing Spike's attention back to his task.  He shook his head a little and went back to work.

"Ha!"  Dawn pulled a small bundle from her bag.  She shook it roughly, and the fabric unrolled to reveal a pair of flannel pajama bottoms and a cotton tank top.  She grinned triumphantly.  "Escape clothes!"

"You always travel with those?" Spike swivled his head, darting a quick look at the plaid pants and floral top.  "Appalling fashion sense, by the way."  He tucked the end of his makeshift bandage into place and smoothed the binding.

"Who wants to unpack before getting into bed?" Dawn shrugged, and pulled her hand away from Spike, flexing experimentally.  "Thanks."

"Nah."

They looked at each other for a moment, considering.  

"So – over the walls with knotted bedsheets, or do we dig a tunnel with pudding spoons?"

"Through the front door, and television has rotted your young mind."  Spike stood up, shedding his jacket.  "Get dressed; I think I saw a pair of shoes in the corner.  Nike sneakers?" He deliberately turned his back to her as he went over to get the shoes, a signal for her to start changing.

"Yep, that's them."  Spike could hear the rasp of her gown as she stripped it off quickly, the creak of the gurney as she struggled out of bed.  "Turn and die, obviously."

"Obviously," Spike agreed.  It hadn't even occurred to him, but he suddenly noticed the way he'd positioned himself between her bed and the door.  No peeping toms through the plexiglass, either.  They were both silent as Dawn changed into her clothes, but eventually Spike could hear her breath coming in short bursts, as though she were struggling with something.  "You all right?"

"NO!"  The vehement exclamation burst from Dawn, and she stared down at her top.  Miserable spandex, in everything now, and her STUPID cast getting in the way again…  She hopped impatiently, then made up her mind.  "Spike, help?  Help help help?"

"Are you decent?"  He still had his back turned toward her, her shoes dangling from one hand.  

"Am I ever?"

Spike chuckled and turned around.  Dawn had managed her flannels just fine, but the straps of her tank top had defeated her.  Currently, she had one strap dangling uselessly, the other hitched almost to her elbow.  Unfortunately, her cast was proving to be a major obstacle, and any motion threatened to bring the top sliding down.  Dawn grimaced at him, her hair wild and her face flushed from the effort.  "Helping?"

"I don't even know where to start," Spike teased, approaching her.  "How about the side that's almost on?"  

"That'd be good."  Dawn twisted a little, and Spike easily slid the strap over her shoulder.  Dawn sighed dramatically.  "Oh, SO much better.  I think I was cutting off circulation in that position."

"You'll live," he responded, but silently considered.  She should be careful, the ways she contorted herself.  She was so used to being flexible, she might unconsciously stress a bone that could shatter… "Right, Bit, stay perfectly still for this one."  He began to maneuver the strap up over her cast as Dawn held the top of the shirt close to her chest.

"You know what this reminds me of?" mused Dawn.  Spike shook his head, concentrating.  "Those games at amusement parks.  The ones where you have to get a metal wand down to the base of a twisty metal sculpture, without touching the wand to the sculpture."

Spike chuckled.  "The ones that made a horrible buzzing sound when the metals touched and you lost the game?  I saw those at seaside carnivals."  

"Yeah!  Those!  I was totally addicted to those… never won, but Buffy could do them in a second.  Of course, I had no idea it all had to do with the Slayer hand-eye coordination at the time.  Don't think she did, either."  Dawn allowed Spike a little more slack to navigate the elbow of the cast.  "But next time I see one, I'm going to try it out.  I think I could do it now."

"Think you're probably right, love."  Spike slid the strap into place and stepped back, looking perplexed.  "Since when did those things get so stretchy?"

"Since the invention of the built-in bra."

"Ah."

"Very functional."  She smirked at him, and he rolled his eyes.  "And you get a prize, too!"

"I get to tie your shoes, right?"

Dawn laughed, but genuinely.  He was quick, always one step ahead of her when she teased him.  She perched on the bed and watched as he knelt down, his fingers deftly loosening the laces of her beat-up old sneakers.  Ready to help her, without a word.  Her protector.  Again.

Something began to rise up in her, a sensation that she could feel from the bottom of her ribcage, a feeling that spread through her limbs and made her shiver a little.  Something that would require a bit of courage to say aloud.  She took a deep breath.

"Spike?"

"Mmmm?"

"You shouldn't be surprised when I try to do nice things for you."  He paused in his lacing, then continued again, more slowly this time.  He was listening intently.  "Like the IV thing?  You shouldn't be shocked that I would do something slightly uncomfortable for me so that you wouldn't be very uncomfortable.  If that sentence made any sense at all."  She tried a different tack.

"I know you're not used to it, but it's how I am, how lots of people are.  You're my friend, and I'll do things to make you happy, anything I can."  She stumbled a bit on her words, the unexpected speech coming difficultly.  "Spike?"

He had finished tying her shoes and stood up.  The expression on his face, though, made Dawn even more convinced that she had to say the words bottled up in her throat.  

He wasn't looking at her face-on, like he usually did.  The brave, fearless Spike look that she knew so well had been replaced by one she'd rarely seen before, and then only in fleeting moments.  His head was slightly turned, averted, and his blue eyes were peering at her at an angle.  His chin was tucked, she realized, and that was when she recognized the posture.  It was a flinch.  As though someone had freeze-framed him as he flinched, but with his eyes open and looking.  

Hoping, she corrected herself.  His eyes were hoping, but the rest of him was expecting a blow, expecting to be hurt and rejected and damaged.  And against all expectations, he was looking at her and hoping… what?  He looked so much like a little boy that Dawn wanted to reassure him, tell him anything to make him happy.

But he was also still Spike, and Spike could tell when she was lying.  So she spoke clearly and honestly, and tried to lay open her heart so he could see how much he meant to her.

"You've always treated me like I'm part of your family.  I don't know how to explain it, and you probably don't either, but it's something that's just happened.  And I want you to know, NEED you to know, that I think of you in the same way."  Spike didn't move, but he'd also stopped breathing entirely.  Breathing had become a bit of a habit with him, having spent so much time around humans, and to see him fall out of it – it meant she was getting to him.  She forged ahead.  

"You're something different in my family – and I've thought a lot about this, actually.  You're almost a brother, almost a close cousin, almost the cool young uncle.  You're a mix of all of them, but you're also something else that I can't explain.  Buffy usually protects me from stuff, so I've never associated that with a parent, but you're also kind of my protector, too.  

"From everything we know, you shouldn't react to me the way you do.  From everything the books and Xander and Willow and Giles say, we should be able to define you neatly, like – oh, I don't know, a panda.  Or something.  Likes, dislikes, habitat, routine.  But they all want you to be different than us, something they can classify and define, something 'other'.  I don't."

Dawn reached out and took his hand.  He let her, and dropped his eyes to the ground, lips pressed tightly together.  

"You're just Spike to me.  You come to my rescue no matter what, you talk to me, you joke with me, you're interested in my life, you impress my friends - and those are all things that family do.  And," she swallowed.  "You love me."

He whispered so quietly that she barely heard it.  "Yeah.  I do."

The knot in her throat thickened, but she spoke through it.  "Then you have to let me be your family.  Let me do the same kind of things for you, even if you think it's silly.  Don't be embarrassed about vampire-stuff, don't hide it from me, just teach me about it so I won't react ignorantly.  Let me help you, tell me when something's hurting you, and then let me fix it.  Because I love you too."

"Okay."  And even though his head was still bent, and Dawn couldn't see his expression, she knew there was one more thing to do.  

She gently slid herself off the bed, brushed her lips across the cool skin of his temple, and wrapped her good arm around the back of his neck, hugging him gently.  In a moment, his arms were tight around her, the heavy cotton of his sweater warming up the expanses of skin her tank top left open, his chin pressing into her shoulder.  And even though his face was calm and smiling when he let her go a minute later, Dawn could feel the tightness of dried saltwater on the bare skin of her neck.

Sheila wasn't on duty when Spike and Dawn left the hospital that evening.  No one remarked on the couple who casually strolled across the foyer to the sliding doors, the girl's flannel pants contrasting starkly with the brown leather jacket slung over her shoulders.  Her arm was only through one of the sleeves; other other arm of the jacket had been tucked into the pocket of the jacket, but a lump under the coat was obviously a cast.  Her companion fussed over her, drawing the front edges of the jacket closer together as he noticed the thick sleet coming down in the brightly-lit parking lot.  All night, the people coming in through the doors had been soaked through to the skin, and the volunteer at the desk wondered if the two would share the single jacket between them. Evie stopped and watched as Spike smoothed Dawn's hair back in a fatherly gesture, at Dawn as she laughed and stuck her tongue out at him.  Spike slung a backpack up and over his shoulder, then held out his arm for Dawn to take.  She took it, hugged his arm close, and the two headed out into the snowy rain.  Evie smiled a little as Spike unobtrusively held his other hand above their heads, as though to ward off the sleet.  He was already drenched, but he seemed to be laughing.  She couldn't help but notice that his hand shielded Dawn much more than it did Spike, hovering inches above her head.

And with that, she filed away her clipboard and took off her apron, her shift over.  She was never asked about the two runaways, even when an investigation was launched and the entire volunteer staff questioned.  She knew that she was passed over due to Sheila, who proclaimed her a "stupid, know-nothing girl" and deemed her too dim to question, and she even believed it a little.  But years later, when a boyfriend gave her his coat and shielded her from the snow with his hand, she smiled and remembered.

TBC


	11. Westward

*

"Definitely an improvement on the DeSoto," Dawn mumbled from the passenger's seat.  Spike smiled slightly, but didn't turn to look at her.  They'd been driving nonstop for what seemed like days, and he was having a hard enough time keeping his eyes open and on the road as it was.  Well, he amended, almost nonstop.

Beside him, Dawn snuggled further into the king-sized quilt they'd picked up at one of the many malls that dotted the highway.  He'd left Dawn asleep in the parking lot, finally overcome by the last of the hospital medications in her blood, and she'd barely woken when he'd gently maneuvered her into her quilted cocoon.  Hopefully, she'd sleep for a couple more hours…

"Whoa.  But THIS is really hideous."

Or perhaps not.

"It was on sale – besides, it's functional."  Spike blearily rubbed his eyes, doing a quick bit of mental arithmetic.  The hospital called at about two on Friday afternoon, and now it was… Saturday, only just past noon.  He blinked.  Should be able to stay up much longer than this.

"How long have I been out?"  Dawn struggled to free her arms from the brown and blue plaid comforter, her hair tangled and mussed.  Her mouth tasted funny, she noted sourly.  And the quilt…

"Seriously, Spike, I can't tell if you're color-blind or not; is this not the FUGLIEST thing you own?"

"You've been sleeping for the past ten hours, love, and no, it's not the fugliest thing I own.  It's the fugliest thing YOU own."  He shifted over into the breakdown lane so that he could look at her as they spoke.  Besides, he was really exhausted.

"Wow."  Dawn was examining the fabric closely as Spike brought the van to a halt in the tunnel beneath an overpass.  Not the most scenic of stopping-points, but shady, and at high noon there was no better place to rest.  Spike's eyes had begun to ache; even the tinted windows weren't proof against the harsh, flat glare.  The welcome cool of the shade immediately soothed the fire that had begun to pound behind his sinuses.

"I think I liked you better when you weren't giving me presents."  Dawn was well awake, and transfixed by her wrapping.  Spike snorted.  She truly did look affronted about the bizarre plaid/check monstrosity, her head pulled back and a disgusted grimace on her face.

"It was the biggest down comforter I could find," he sighed, leaning on the steering wheel with both arms.  The girl was so damn perky for someone coming out of medicated sleep… Dawn finally picked up on his mood and changed her tone.

"Sorry – I was kidding."  She plucked guiltily at a seam, head bent.  Maybe this wasn't a time to joke around.  "Oh!  And thank you for the quilt!"  Oops.  God, Mom would've killed her for being so ungrateful… But this was Spike, and she – no, she stopped herself.  She'd been really rude. "Sorry, Spike." Her face flushed a little, and she looked away from Spike's hunched form.  

Hunh?  She peered around, trying to get a better idea of their location.  "Do you know where we are right now?  I mean, besides under a big concrete bridge, obviously."

Spike's voice was muffled, his head buried in his arms.  "Ohio.  Bloody, bleeding Ohio."  

"I've never been to Ohio."  Spike didn't answer, and Dawn chewed her lip.  How to phrase the next bit without sounding like a child?  She gentled her voice, practically breathing her question.  "Just for planning purposes - how much longer do you think we've got?"

Spike didn't explode, though.  He just answered, still muffled.  "From what I remember, this can take about two days, straight through.  But we'll be stopping to rest halfway, so it might take longer."

"Why rest?"  

Spike lifted his head just enough to look at her flatly, but she jutted her chin out determinedly.  "I'm a fully licensed driver, have been for almost a year.  Besides, it's not fair that you have to drive the whole way… you look beat."  Spike gave her a doubting glance and she redoubled her efforts, trying to coax rather than whine.

"I'm a good driver.  Sure, Buffy's just about the worst driver on the face of the earth, but that's not genetic or anything.  She's just got a natural impulse to hit things – maybe it's Slayer-related, instinctively trying to knock stuff over."  Spike chuckled a little, and Dawn grinned hesitantly.  Even if he didn't let her drive, she could get him out of whatever mood he was in.  "I'm a GOOD driver, I got my license way back in freaking October, and I haven't even got a warning since!  Sean and Lise taught me in his car – I can do rotaries and everything!"  She smiled at him and tilted her head so that it was angled in the same direction as his, meeting his bleary eyes directly.  Spike's mouth hitched up at one corner, and he buried his head in his arms again.

"Right, you can drive."

"YAY!"  

"But only for two hours!" He shoved himself back from the steering wheel again, shaking his head vigorously to wake himself up.  He hadn't wanted to put the radio on while she was asleep, just in case it bothered her.  Not everyone could sleep like he did.  Like the dead.  Spike caught himself chuckling and winced.  God, he must be tired to find that pun funny.

Dawn watched him warily.  Honestly, she'd never seen him so drained.  Dark circles ringed his eyes, and the light that filtered through the tinted windows of the car made him look a sickly yellow.  "When did you last get some sleep?"

"Oh, 'bout forty-eight hours ago, I'd reckon."  He smiled at her wanly, eyes half-lidded, head leaning back against the headrest.  "It shouldn't hit me this hard, but I guess I was burning through a lot of nervous energy in the past twenty-four."

"Yeah, I know.  Thanks," Dawn whispered, taking his hand.  Spike shrugged and squeezed her fingers gently, happily noting how warm they were.  The "fugly" comforter had done its work, at least.  The van might be less noticeable than the DeSoto, he mused, but it definitely lacked a heating system.  

The thought of Dawn shivering in her pajamas all night wasn't the only reason for the purchase, though.  As brave as Dawn was, she hadn't been able to mask her pain completely.  

By all rights, she should've been wheeled out of the hospital doors, but that was way too noticeable.  Dawn tried to be stoic; unfortunately, her aircast didn't provide much in the way of support – every step, she thought she could feel the bones grinding at each other.  She hadn't said a word, but the thought of her weakened bones suddenly giving way drained the color from her face and made her feel vaguely nauseous.  Every step across the hospital parking lot made her wince, until Spike swept her into his arms and carried her the rest of the way to the van.  

She'd barely had time to register his actions before he had her safely settled against his chest, and after that, protest had seemed petty.  She'd settled for entertaining herself with the snowflakes falling on his dark hair, avidly trying to pluck them away before they could melt and trickle down to his scalp.  He was helping her, Dawn had reminded herself.  Her ankle hurt, and he'd stopped it from hurting her.  Goodness all around.  Any rumbles of indignant independence quieted after that.

Spike wasn't just worried about her aircast, of course.  He'd also realized how slippery the pavement could be, and any jarring motion for Dawn at this point could injure her badly.  Dr. Prescott had mentioned joint replacements, broken hips – things not usually associated with young girls, only elderly people.  The thought of Dawn immobilized hurt him more than he could bear, and had set him thinking about the cross-country drive ahead.  One of his mother's sayings sprang to mind, something about "wrapping you in cotton wool", a phrase that implied safety and protection… and that was when he'd seen the Linens'N'Things sign glowing above the highway.  Perhaps providence existed after all.  His long-departed Mum, keeping her eye on Dawn's ankle… Hold on a second.

"Ah – nope, no driving for you."

"What?  Why?"  Dawn was startled. But he'd only just said yes!  "What'd I do?"

"Broke your right ankle, that's what you did, and I'm not letting you experiment by driving with your left foot on the pedals, so don't even ask."  

"Oh."  Dawn looked down at her feet; damn, he was right.  She'd pulled off her right sneaker almost as soon as they'd gotten into the van – even though Spike had tied the laces loosely, her foot was too swollen to bear constriction without discomfort.  But it looked like the swelling had gone down some, and now it didn't even hurt.  She twisted her toes up a little to get a better look and immediately gasped.

"What?"  Spike's head snapped around.

Dawn blinked back tears, panting.  "Damn – sorry, I was trying to see if my -  foot's gone down, and -  I just twisted it wrong."  Spike leaned across the seat for a better look.  Dawn was holding her foot high above the floor, dangling limply from the ankle, but he could see it jerking in response to her pulse.  The unconscious twitching motion alone caused sharp little intakes of breath from Dawn; she had her hands planted on either side of her seat, elbows locked and back straight, as though she could will her entire body to hold still.  Spike winced.  She would not have an easy time driving, even as a passenger, with every motion jarring her.  He pushed back to his side of the van and mulled.

"Right, pet, this is what we're going to do."  Dawn shut her eyes, more than happy to leave the immediate decisions up to him.  Spike reached behind him and dragged an old carriage blanket into the front seat.  It smelled a little musty, but it would do.  "Pop the glove compartment, would you, bit?"

Dawn quickly reached forward to open the latch, then settled back into her stiff pose.  Her breaths were getting longer, Spike noticed – she was easing out the pain on her own, controlling her body's reactions, rather than letting her body to control her.  Smart girl.  He snatched a roll of electrical tape from the compartment in front of her and slammed the door shut again, then paused.

"And should we discuss how comfortable playing with duct tape and a camouflage-color blanket on the side of a highway make me feel right now?" Dawn laughed shortly, still trying to relax her posture.  Spike rolled his eyes.

"You've been watching crime shows again, haven't you?" Dawn smiled guiltily.  "Are you sure you can handle them?  Or am I going to be searching all of the closets before you go to bed for weeks, like that time we watched the 'Law & Order' marathon?"

"That was almost three years ago!" Dawn protested.  Spike just looked at her.  "Yeah, you probably will," she admitted sheepishly.  "C.S.I. repeat, stalker in a closet, not a good scene for me."  

Spike shook his head.  "I just don't understand you.  Surrounded by demons and evil, and what gives you nightmares?  A fictional television show about crime in Las Vegas."

"Yeah, I know, I'm mental.  Now gag me with the tape, wrap me in the blanket and chuck me in a river.  You know you want to."

He groaned, but jumped out of the van and jogged around the back.  Dawn had her door opened by the time he reached it, and he was pleased to see that she'd anticipated his plan.  She had already carefully extended her injured leg, tucking the quilt away so that Spike would be able to wrap the entire area.  He was an expert at it, too – within minutes, he'd neatly bound her from shin to toe in a soft splint, the black tape forming secure and even bands every few inches.  

"That a little more bearable?"  He looked up from where he knelt in front of her, propped up on one knee.

"Oh, you have no idea," Dawn breathed happily, experimentally moving her leg from the knee.  The splint held her entire foot immobile, enough so that the van wouldn't cause her pain every time it went over a pothole.  "Thank you.  Now get up before I knight you or something."

"Somewhere, the Queen rolls over in her grave."  He stood, brushing the grit and sand from his jeans.

"She's not dead."

"Oh.  Well, I was talking about Victoria, actually."

"Oh!"  Dawn blinked at him, surprised.  It wasn't often that he referenced the past like that, and it always unbalanced her for a moment, twisted her reality. She kind of liked it.  But she'd think on that personality quirk later.  

She moved on.  "Now, here's what we're going to do.  We're going to drive for a little, tiny bit longer, and then we're going to get a room for a while."

"And what makes you think I'm that easy?" Spike was full of amused outrage, but Dawn fixed him with a steely look.  "Sorry – serious."

"Spike, what other options are there?  I mean, you're much more awake right now than you were a couple of minutes ago, but I don't want you wearing yourself down in some superhuman rush to get to Sunnydale.  Either we wait until you get too tired and end up sleeping in the back of the van on the side of the road under the Quilt of Fugliness, or you fall asleep at the wheel and we become one with a tree."

"Touche.  We find a motel."  

"And we shower."  Dawn wrinkled her nose.  "I feel like I'm covered in hospital-smell, not to mention airplane-crashy-smell."

"Trust me, nibblet, you smell fine."  

And honestly, now she was partially out of the van, Dawn didn't feel as icky anymore.  She edged further out of her quilt, even though there was a bit of a breeze in the shade, and let the wind tease through her hair.  Ohio.  Ohio felt pretty good.  Who'd've thought?

Spike stood beside her and leaned against the side of the van, careful not to press against Dawn's damaged leg, but close enough to feel her presence.  He enjoyed being out in the daylight like this; it made him feel as though he'd cheated his nature somehow.  The wind swept under the bridge, bringing with it the scent of thawed soil, tall grass, wildflowers, sun.  Even in the shadows of the overpass, the elusive heat was palpable to him, dry and heavy with earthy, sun-baked tones.  So unlike the night, when everything held its scent close, shuttered up and closed away from prying senses.  Selfish, secretive, wary.  

But this – this was so different, like a completely new world.  The day was when the world flung itself open and let the wind mingle scents into a heady breeze, made all the more potent by the sun.  A sun whose rays gently filtered and bathed those particles, turned them, coaxed their full potential out in dizzying waves.  A sun which would char him to ashes, given only the chance.

"It's completely different, isn't it?"  Dawn asked quietly, her head leaned close to Spike's.  Her words seemed random, but she knew he understood, nodding silently in reply.  True to her word, she wanted to understand his world.  And in doing so, she would try to imagine his night-bound senses as they encountered daylight.  In her own mind, Dawn was surprised how easily the change came to her; much like one of her harmless white lies, Dawn slid her reality.  Slightly to the right, this time, close to where Spike stood, into his shoes.  Lying to her mind, just for a while.

He turned to see her by his shoulder, her head bent and eyes closed, concentrating.  So pale…  Well, that's what a year in New Hampshire will do to you.  Her dark hair tumbling around her white, unmade face reminded him of something, and he reached over to tuck her hair behind her ear.  She leaned into his hand a little, and he started.  

Their skin was almost the same color.  A wave of revulsion passed through him, harsh and fleeting, as he suddenly imagined her dead.  No.  Never.  He leaned in and kissed her forehead gently, happy for her warmth against his lips; she smiled and snuggled closer.  He was so used to seeing her bronzed and Californian - this delicate and haunting presence disturbed him a little.  A word floated through his head, a new name, a name only for her, and he held on to it tight.  An image that bound itself inexorably to the girl beside him.  Blooming beautifully, day and night.  He tucked it away, secret.

He couldn't grasp the feelings rushing through him, couldn't name them.  But he knew that Dawn was different.  So different from her sister, who interrupted night with her own violent light, a brash and demanding presence so strong that she could make the night recoil by sheer will, a personality that couldn't, wouldn't be contained.  No – Dawn's presence had always seemed so natural, so expected.  She acclimated to her surroundings with such subtle grace, she probably didn't realize how unusual she was.  Wove herself into the patterns of your life and before you realized it, she belonged in you.  And, in some strange way, made you belong to her.  Adopted.  Spike's throat tightened; he swallowed, hard.  Whatever piece of him Dawn had taken, she'd given him so much more in return.

Dawn was oblivious to Spike's quiet thoughts, her cheek on his shoulder, the soft leather pressed against her skin.  When he picked her up last night, she had suddenly realized that he didn't smell as strongly of cigarette smoke as she remembered.  But she didn't miss it; no, the other Spike-smell was still there.  It had been so masked by the stale tobacco stench, she'd never had the chance to indulge in it properly.  Cool and leathery, with an underlying scent of…  The words flowed through her head too quickly to catch, each one adding a particular dimension to the smell of Spike.  Moss, water, stone, night, wind, wood, vines, dirt.  All of those scents bright and new, sharp and alive.  If it could be bottled, thought Dawn, it would be the most popular cologne ever.  Strong and loyal, earthbound.  Rooted.  She wound her good arm through his, feeling the muscle in his arm tense as he caught her hand and held it.  A pale young man stealing breaths of the bright spring breeze, while the girl beside him inhaled the odors of a life lived without sunlight.

A few minutes later they continued on their way.  Dawn rewrapped herself in her fugly quilt, making ambitious noises about ripping off the cover and quilting her own design to replace it.  Spike found a station broadcasting a Stone Roses afternoon and sang along loudly, ignoring Dawn's mock-protests.  And together they barreled westward on the I-80, through the warm Ohio afternoon in a van that smelled like midnight.

TBC


	12. Passage

*

"Taco.  How I've missed you."  

Dawn sighed and bit deeply into her tortilla, the hot food steaming in the chill air.  She was perched in the back of the van, doors flung open wide to the moonlit California morning.  Mexican food, finally.  After months of scorning the Taco Bells of New England, the taste of REAL Mexican seemed close to ambrosia.  Dawn envisioned her favorite taco restaurant in Sunnydale; only two hours away now, and then she'd be there.  Well, she corrected, she'd be home.  Which wasn't the Mexican restaurant, but hey.  She'd get there soon enough, too.

Spike stalked back into view, fiddling with one of his blood bags.  Dawn watched him struggle impassively as she chewed, too happy about eating real Mexican food again to care. 

"How the hell did you do this?"  Spike growled as the blood on his hands made the bag slip in his grasp.  Dawn smirked at him and turned to rummage in the far corner of the van's interior.  Over the past 24 hours, she'd come to appreciate the huge, empty space of Spike's new mode of transportation.  Obviously designed for cargo rather than passengers, it became the perfect place for Dawn to curl up and doze as Spike blew through state after state.  Occasionally, he'd mention the posted speed limit, but only if he could then claim to be going at least twice as fast.  But usually, Dawn just slept, all curled up on the burgundy shag-pile carpeting, Fugly wrapped tightly around her, the stretches of straight highway soothing her to sleep.

She found what she was looking for in the van and turned around again.  Spike was standing a few feet away, trying to dig his blunt nails into the top seam of the bag.  A plastic straw crinkled angrily where he clenched it in his teeth, and Dawn deftly swiped it.  "Hey!  I was getting somewhere with that!"

"No, you were making a mess – god, you are SUCH a boy."  Dawn beckoned him closer and he grumpily complied.  Delicately holding one corner of the plastic pouch, she twisted a small screwdriver through one of the flexible walls, leaving a neat rip in the bag.  "It's just like those Capri Sun juice boxes – well, I guess they weren't really boxes, more like pouches – but they were just about the coolest thing around when I was in kindergarten."  As Spike watched on, she crimped the bottom of the straw into a point, jammed it through the slit, and squeezed experimentally.  

"OI!  Careful, you!"  Spike jumped back as a stream of red spouted from the straw, missing him by inches.   Dawn rolled her eyes and held the bag out to him with one hand.  He took it, warily sipping through the straw, then drinking deeply.

"Thanks," Spike muttered.  

"It's not completely altruistic – keeps you from dribbling blood out of the corners of your mouth."  Dawn smiled, but Spike didn't respond.  Worse, he began to walk away from her again, pacing out to the edge of the rest stop to stare out at the hills.  Dawn's smile faded.

He's been doing this for the whole trip, she thought.  Saturday had been fun, sure.  But as Sunday wore on, the banter and joking had gotten sparser, sharper – sometimes a little too sharp.  Actually, she got the feeling that Spike would've liked her to be asleep the whole way.  And that wasn't a good feeling to have.  Dawn crumpled her taco wrapper slowly, thinking as she crushed.  

He'd been so nice to her at the beginning of the trip, and then he'd just steadily gotten more irritable.  And even now, after hours of reflection, she couldn't for the life of her figure out what she'd done wrong!  She'd been wicked patient about bathroom breaks, she'd offered to share her fries from Burger King, and she'd been really intelligent about the motel check-in.  Donna Williams and her brother Spike – the hotel clerk hadn't even blinked at her 14-year old act.  She'd taken care of all of it, letting him stay in the car until the last possible moment when he had to dash from car to room.  She thought he'd wake up refreshed.  Instead?  He'd woken up just plain foul, not to mention determined to finish the trip by Monday.

Dawn sighed. Four AM on Monday, and he was practically inaccessible.  Surly, tense. It was as if every mile that brought them closer to Sunnydale…

"Oh.  Duh."

Spike looked up.  Even after eating (Dawn refused to think of it as "feeding"), his face had a drawn cast to it.  "What?"

"It's Sunnydale.  That's why you're all weird.  And here I was thinking that you just hated me."

Spike's head dropped momentarily, his face twisting.  Dawn sighed.

"Spike, you're acting like…"  Dawn searched for the proper metaphor.  "Like Superman approaching the source of all kryptonite."

"Stop talking like Harris."  Spike slouched over to her and leaned against the van.  "Besides, bit, this can't exactly be a surprise to you."  He twisted a lit cigarette in his fingers, focusing on the smoke as it curled up into the air.  Dawn watched him play with it.

"Stick o'Death."

"Not really a problem here."  But he took only one more pull before tossing it away.  "No, Dawn.  I'm not filled with joy at the prospect of the old stomping grounds."

Ah.  So this is when we have the talk.  She took a deep breath as inconspicuously as she could.

"It's because of Buffy, isn't it."

Spike jolted a little at the name.  Only a little, so that it would have been imperceptible to anyone else.  But Dawn was watching for his reaction, and he didn't disappoint. 

"Dawn.."  Spike coughed and paused, looking out on the lightening sky for a few moments.  He cleared his throat.  "There's things that happened between me and your sister."  He stopped again.  Dawn waited, but he didn't continue.

"LOTS of things happened between you and her.  But you've changed, right?  And she's kinda changed, too…"  Her voice was pitched high in her ears.  Hopeful.  She winced away from it.

"Love… I don't think I can change enough to fix the damage done."  Spike shook his head, his profile silhouetted in the fluorescence of the rest stop lights.  Dawn wished vainly for more light, so she could see the expressions on his face.  Then again, Spike had never been able to hide his emotions well; they permeated every aspect of him.  The way he spoke, the way he moved, the way he held himself apart.  And right now, Spike's whole body was radiating shame, regret, and most surprisingly - resignation.  

"Spike, whatever happened between you two, you've been gone two years.  Maybe if you tell her where you've been all this time…"  She stopped, worrying her lower lip between her teeth.  Okay, then.  Now or never.

"Maybe you could tell me first."  He didn't move, and she rushed to fill the silence.  "I mean, you could tell me whatever parts of it you want, and I could tell you if Buffy wouldn't like it, or maybe help you figure out how to say it…"  She trailed off.  I sound like a total child, she realized.  Too eager, way too eager.  Dawn blushed and waited, too embarrassed to speak again.

Spike stared out at the horizon, studiously avoiding Dawn's eyes.  The silence stretched out, far beyond simply uncomfortable, approaching the kind of "you're over the line" silences she sometimes got from Buffy.  Oh, crap.  Crap crap crap.  Dawn's heart began to pound in her chest, panicking.  She'd been so close, and then to lose him because she took a stupid chance…

Suddenly, Spike moved.  Dawn flinched away from him, her active imagination working overtime in the dark and cold, and Spike's eyes widened briefly.  But he didn't rebuke her – he just settled against the wall of the van, facing her.  Gently, he nudged her through the quilt with his boot.

"I know you're trying to help, bit, but if I see Buffy, I'll just have to – muddle through.  If she asks, I'll tell her anything she wants to know."  He glanced at Dawn, who flushed again.  Then he cleared his throat.

"But I'll tell YOU now, if you want to know."

"Oh!"  Oh.  Oh, lord.  Dawn's already-jumpy pulse skipped and her face fell. Caught.

Spike watched the emotions flicker over her face, quiet amusement tugging at his lips.  When it came to asking the more difficult questions, Dawn tended to hide behind others.  Not hard to do, with the pushy lot she grew up around, he realized.  Even now, as her expressions telegraphed the internal war of wills she was settling, she was still holding back.  But he wasn't about to let her hide behind Buffy this time.  Not with this sort of question.  He knew that she thought of herself as too polite to pry into the business of others, but now…

"Oh, tell me!"  Dawn blurted out, then quickly clapped both hands tightly over her mouth.  Spike laughed at her expression of horror, and Dawn peeked out at him from between splayed fingers, her muffled voice barely audible over her giggling.  "I mean, I'd like to know, please, if you wouldn't mind, and I've really got to get a filter fitted between my brain and my mouth.  Sorry."

"Love, if it's any consolation to you, I think that certain thought's been brewing for a while."  He raised an eyebrow.  "How long did it take you to figure out how to phrase it?"

"Oh, Alicia and I figured that out way back, the night after the movie."  Dawn rolled her eyes expressively.  "You were quite the topic of conversation."

"I'm sure.  And what took you so long in asking?"

Dawn snorted.  "Oh, you think it's easy to make it look like I'm not being nosy?  'Hey Spike, so there's this subject you've been mysteriously avoiding?  Tell me all about it.'  I had to wait for the perfect opening!"  She sobered a little.  "Besides, I really do mean it.  Sure, I want to know what you've been doing, but hey – sister."

"Yeah."  Spike fished a can of Coke out of his blood cooler and tossed it to Dawn; she opened it and took a sip without even a comment about its proximity to the other liquids.  Not even a grimace.  "Speaking of your sister…"

"Mmmmm – you want the Sunnydale update?"  Dawn turned to face him, mirroring his pose.  She suddenly tensed and looked out into the darkness.  "Not to change subjects or anything, but should we be worried about getting vamped here?  Or, in your case, re-vamped.  Heh."

"No, ducks – this is about the point when you start seeing 'Hellmouth or Bust' signs."  He shrugged.  "It'd be like heading to New York, but stopping at the last exit on the New Jersey turnpike.  Bit of a letdown."

"Riiiiight."  Dawn was still a little twitchy, so Spike elaborated.

"If any vamps see us, which they won't, they'll think you're dinner.  And though I'm sure you're absolutely delicious, Dawn, it's just not worth the effort for another vampire to take you from me.  It would likely make me angry."  As he spoke, he allowed his face to slowly change, and by the time he stopped speaking he was in full vampire mode. 

Dawn studied him.  "How perverse it is that I feel better now you've done that?"  She shook her head, and he chuckled, letting the face recede.  

The sun was far from rising, but the sky was beginning to turn from black to blue.  Dawn squinted at the horizon.  "I think my knee is bruising that color."  Spike smirked.

"So," Dawn sighed, settling back again.  "What've you been up to?"  She set the empty Coke can down beside her and pulled the quilt up to her neck.  Like a bedtime story at a sleepover, she thought.  Well, boy, and vampire, but whatever.

Spike began to play with his lighter, not looking at Dawn, just watching the flame.  It was hypnotizing.  Orange-blue flare, again and again.

"I went to Africa – guess that's the most important part.  Went because… well, honestly love, because I was very angry.  A whole lot of it was because I'd fought with your sister, but even more of it was because I was just lost.  You live a hundred years doing one thing and doing it well, and then you've got nothing.  Not a pretty feeling.

"So I got angry and completely misdir – uh, actually, I'll keep it in the mindset I had then, right?   Right.  So, I pretty much wanted Buffy dead."

"Again?!?"  Dawn groaned.  "Seriously, Spike.  Time for a new angle."

"Yeah, I know, I know.  But I did mean it, at the time."  Spike casually passed one hand over the lighter's flame, and Dawn lurched forward and smacked his hand away.  "Hey!"

"Don't do that," Dawn scolded.

"People do it all the time, it doesn't hurt at all…" He dragged his index finger through the flame, briefly cutting the fire in two.  Dawn gasped and snatched his hand in one of hers.  

"That is IT!" She crawled over beside him, sucking the air in through her teeth when she inadvertently knelt on a bruised area.  He stayed still as she curled up next to him, wary of bruising her again with a careless movement, and soon found her clinging tightly to his arm, imprisoning his right hand. She winced briefly as she settled, then turned to glare at Spike.

"Spike, for a centurion, you can be really dumb."  He opened his mouth in protest, but she cut him off.  "Humans?  Made of 98% water.  That's why the flame trick doesn't hurt us.  But YOU?"  She poked him in the sternum with one finger.  "You and your ilk crumble to highly flammable dust when you die."

"My 'ilk'?  Any reason you've gone all archaic, or has someone been telling you to build an ark lately?"

Dawn ignored him.  "You can light the lighter.  You may not turn yourself into an undead torch."  She suddenly grinned up at him.  "You can do that later, on your own time, when I don't need you to drive me home."

"As long as we're all sure that your own particular needs have been considered," he growled back.  She stared back at him, full of mock-sternness.  He slouched a little more against the wall until she was able to rest her head on top of his shoulder, all the while flicking the lighter on and off.  On and off.  On and -

"Keep going."

Oh, right.  "So I went to this demon - don't ask how I knew of him – and I told him to de-chip me, turn me back into something worthy of the title 'Bloody'."

"It was that easy?"

"Hell, no.  There were all kinds of tests, the kind of meaningless torture that can have no real point – think 'Fear Factor' a million times over."

"You had to eat BUGS?"  Spike snorted at the horror in Dawn's voice.  

"Niblet, I'm figuring that the wee small hours are probably NOT the time to tell your hyperactive imagination about my trials."

"Oh – gotcha, good call, tell me those tomorrow.  Go on.  After the totally icky test?"

Spike scowled.  "Well, love, turns out that I wasn't properly focused before I took the damn thing.  While my head was saying that I wanted to kill the slayer and all her nearest and dearest, with elaborate plots and diagrams and aplocalypses bouncing 'round my head like sodding sugarplums, my mouth was doing its usual shorthand.  In effect, I said something about Buffy getting what she deserved."  The lighter was dying out a little, and he shook it violently, nearly dislodging Dawn with the motion.  He flicked it open again and it sputtered to life, renewed.

"Okay, 'what she deserves'… What the hell does that mean?"  Dawn said.

"Well, I meant it to represent bloody misery and devastation.  A very simple, yet vivid word picture, if you will.  Unfortunately, the Powers That Be had a different take on it."

"Which would be…?"  Dawn didn't trust the Powers at ALL.  Spike could feel her stiffening up, her suspicious little mind running circles.  Good girl, a part of him commented.  He pushed the thought aside and wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

"As far as I can tell, bit?  It means that she deserves one less rampaging, insane vampire on her hands.  'Cause after the tests, I became the cool, calm specimen you see before you."  He spread his hands wide, smirking.  

"But the chip…"

"Ah," Spike nodded.  "That's the Out of Africa part of the story.  You okay for more?"

"Hit me."

"Left Africa, returned to the States to gather together some things from various sources, and headed north."

"North?  Why?"

Spike snorted.  "Well, we've your sister in the States, then Drusilla below the border.  And as far as I know?  No one hates me in Canada."  His forehead suddenly creased in concentration. "Wait, hold on – there's some sort of lair in Vancouver.  Hmmm. Just remembered that."  He shook his head.  "Must've been pretty out of it to forget them."

"You were out of it?"

"You have no idea, bit.  Crushed hopes, along with some of the nastier side effects of the demon-encounter in Africa.  I was a tad – depressed.  I got about as far as Minnesota."

Dawn laughed.  "A haven for disgruntled vampires, I'm sure."

"Then you'd be bloody mistaken," Spike grumped.  "You ever seen the mosquitoes in that state?  Wouldn't be able to find a victim worth draining after the bugs got to them."

"So then what?  You snuck across the heavily fortified border under cover of darkness?"  Dawn was beginning to enjoy the story, now that the killing-Buffy part was over.

"Actually?  I ended up spending some time with Oz.  Willow's wolf."  He enjoyed this part of the story, so missed the reaction of the girl beside him.  "Turned out to be a not-bad bloke… not to mention, he's been reading up on the philosophers.  Damn intelligent little beastie.  You know, Red sure knows how to pick 'em.  Though," he amended, "Oz and Tara do have a lot of the same traits.  Like, they think the same.  Oz told me all about his little encounter with our good witch…"  Dawn gaped at him.  He chuckled. 

"What?  He said she's lovely, and I can't disagree.  'Course, it took a little time and perspective for him to figure it out."  He suddenly ducked his head.  "Not that it was all talk about you lot, you understand.  You may think the bloody world revolves around you, but…"

"Spike."

"What?"  Dawn swallowed audibly.  Spike looked at her, his concern growing.  "Dawn?  What?"

Dawn pulled away and turned to face him, sitting Indian-style across from him, quilt tight around her shoulders.  She shivered as a chill swept through her, but she had to tell him.  Had to get this part out now, before he used her name in the present tense again.

He gentled his voice to a concerned rumble.  "Dawn.  Tell me."

"Spike – that's one of the things that happened.  Tara."  

Spike tensed.  Then he said, quite unconsciously, "She's dead."

Because she was.  Every ounce of instinct in him had been on alert, and he hadn't even noticed until it was too late.  Dawn's reactions, her tenses, her scent, her posture – now he knew what to look for, Tara's death was written all over her.  And it was old death, at that; the kind that had been around so long that Dawn had stopped fighting it, that she now accepted it.  And yet, he surprised himself with his own blunt statement, and startled Dawn a bit.  He stared, dazed.

"Oh.  Okay."  He breathed.  His chest rose and fell, which was comforting, if unnecessary.  Dawn watched him, wondering what was going on in his head.  She didn't feel the ache of Tara's death anymore.  She'd cried so much… two years had dulled the more violent images, of blood and blankness and too much light and silence.  But watching Spike as he stared off, concentrating on something far away, she felt the need to explain.  Explain why she wasn't crying. She felt guilty, being so quiet and calm.  One of them should be crying.  Shouldn't they?

"She died just after you left – only days after you left.  And she was really, really happy.  She and Willow were together again, and she was living in the house, but then someone shot her."  

"A gun."  Spike made a disgusted, laughing sound at the back of his throat.  "Stupid, stupid…"

"Yeah.  But it was quick," she stammered. "And when I found her she wasn't in pain, I don't think there was any pain at all… I stayed with her.  Just in case."  Dawn tugged very gently on his bootlace, not wanting to draw his attention, just wanting contact.  As if she'd be able to feel rage, or pain, or sadness – whatever emotion that Spike was bottling up.  He stared into the distance, breathing, quiet.  But all she felt was his bootlace.

Suddenly, she heard his head lift, and when she looked at him he was staring right at her.  "She loved you, bit.  She loved you to pieces."  He was saying the words forcefully, like he could convince her.  "She would've made a wonderful mum, and that's part of what she felt for you.  I saw it."  Because that's what she's left behind, he thought.  The ability to feel that kind of all-encompassing love and forgiveness and - an image of Tara rushed up from his memory, laughing, beaming.  As long as Dawn carried a part of her, they'd all be okay. "She was family, and she loved you."

"I know," she said.  It was simple and true.  Tara had been something inexplicable to her, the perfect transition person between mother and sister, the one who knew exactly what to say… Dawn shook herself before she could tumble into reverie.  

Spike had to strain to hear the next words she said.  Dawn practically breathed them, shyly.  "You know, sometimes I think about what it was like talking to her, or helping her around the house, or going to the movies.  And when I snap out of it, it's like she was there.  Right next to me."  She blushed a little.  "I don't really mention that too much, though.  Anya would call me insane, or maybe send me to a shrink.  So…"

"I won't tell," he said simply.  Then he smiled, just barely.  "Love, it wouldn't surprise me if she's still looking after you.  Not at all."

A truly brilliant smile lit up Dawn's face.  "Thanks," she whispered.  Spike continued to smile at her, and suddenly she felt more relaxed than she had in days.  Gingerly, she curled up in the space beside him, closing her eyes, happy.  

The rest of the conversation can wait, she thought as Spike's fingers gently swept her hair back from her brow.  The rest of the conversation would be difficult, after all, and she was tired.  The pent-up nervousness at her estrangement from Spike had kept her awake a lot more than he knew, a gnawing feeling in her stomach, and now the need to sleep deeply was sweeping through her relentlessly.  Spike continued to run his fingers over her scalp - soothing, repetitive brushings that made her head feel light and sleepy.  She yawned once, and realizing she was on the brink of sleep, struggled up to the surface of her consciousness for one last statement.

"Spike?"

"Yeah?"

"Tara watched over you too, more than you knew."  She paused, and Spike momentarily wondered if she'd drifted off.  "She always thought of you as – one of us."

A breeze swept through the trees, beginning to break up the heavy smell of night with lighter scents of daylight.  A bird began to chirp in the trees above, a high trilling that cut through the air sharply.

"Well, love, let's hope she's watching over us still."

TBC


	13. Revello

*

"Right, love.  Time to wake up."

Dawn groaned and blinked, momentarily unsettled by the blur of brown and blue around her.  Oh, right.  Fugly.  She shut her eyes tight and peeled the quilt away from her body, noting with disgust the vaguely sticky feeling of her clothes clinging to her skin.  "Oh, wow.  That's just nasty."

Spike turned a little to peer into the back of the van.  "Yes, Dawn, we've established that I've got bad taste in quilts.  Drop it already?"

"Oh, blah, I'm so over that."  Dawn hitched herself upright, staring at the deep creases in her pajama pants.  She'd seen what clothes could do when worn in the car for hours, but her current state was really dismal.  "I've been wearing these clothes for so long, they've decided to meld to me.  Eugh.  I can't WAIT to get into the shower."  She suddenly bolted upright.  

"Oh my god… I'm not smelly, am I?"

Spike snorted.  "Only a tiny bit more so than usual, bit.  You did take a shower at the motel, if you'll recall."

"Yeah, but I was thinking about vampire-sense and everything… never mind.  Besides, who knows the last time you showered, you disgusting thing.  Thank god I don't have your nose."

"Hey, watch it."  Spike glared.

"I like that you're trying to give me a dirty look in the rearview mirror," Dawn smirked.  "Very scary and non-reflecting."

"See, I always suspected you were a rotten morning person," Spike replied.  "And that's why I'm going to feel no guilt at all for not giving you a donut."  A crinkling noise caught Dawn's attention, and she watched in horror as Spike produced a Krispy Kreme pastry bag from the passenger seat.  Savoring the moment, he murmured appreciatively as he produced a huge donut and waved it in the air jauntily.  Then all hell broke loose.

"NOOOOO!"  A brown-and-blue blur lurched over the seat, snatching the powdered donut Spike was slowly bringing to his mouth. Spike jumped, not expecting such energy from someone who'd been snoring only moments earlier.  He carefully steered the van back to the center of the road, Dawn's head bobbing just over his shoulder as she took a huge hunk out of the donut.

"Dawn!  Be careful, you're not as tough as you were!"  The thought of her long limbs shattering haunted him more than she knew; every time she lurched or turned in an odd way, his heart leaped.  He eyed the seat division distrustfully.

Dawn, though, was completely oblivious to his concern.  "Thank yooooooou," she crooned at him as she loomed over the divide, her mouth full of chewed-up pastry, her breath overpoweringly sugary.  She could barely close her lips due to the size of the bite she'd taken, and Spike was seriously worried that she might end up showering him with saliva-drenched crumbs.

"Lovely AND revolting.  Sit down and buckle up."  Dawn obliged, sliding into the passenger seat, her mouth still covered in powdered sugar.  She finished it quickly, ravenously, and Spike couldn't help but laugh at the sight of her.  All limbs and length, she curled up in the extra seat with no problem, pausing only to haul Fugly over the divide after her.  She hummed happily, bouncing a little in her seat as she licked the remains of her breakfast off her fingers.  "Loon," he muttered, and she beamed at him again before looking out the window.

"Hey."  Dawn glanced around her with a slight air of irritation.  "We're, like, twenty minutes from home!"  She scowled.  "Thanks.  It's a much better idea for me to be awake and nervous for the next fifteen miles, rather than peacefully ignorant."

Spike looked at her flatly.  "Ignorant?  Nice turn of phrase there, bit.  And here I thought I there'd be no problem with me carrying your unconscious body right up to your sister's front door."

Dawn reddened, feeling very foolish.  "Oh.  Good point, actually."  

"A dusty piece of business, right there."  Spike shifted in his seat, shooting a quick glance at Dawn.  "Dawn, about that?  We should clear some things up before we get to your place."

Dawn snapped to attention, turning to face him.  "Oh, yeah.  We didn't get to most of it last night.  Ummmm…"  She squinted, focusing.  

"Well, essentially, Willow went all nuts when Tara died.  I didn't see much of it, but the second-hand reports are pretty gruesome.  She went back on the magic crackpipe in a major, MAJOR way."

Spike pressed his lips together tightly, focusing on the road.  "That's one who should never have gotten a taste of it in the first place."

"Yeah, I'm guessing just about everyone would agree at this point.  Anyhow, she went after the geeks."  

"The Star Wars pillocks?"  Spike laughed grimly.  "Would've liked to do that myself, actually.  Did they have tape of her and Tara?"

"Oh!  No, no, we found all the cameras…"  Dawn trailed off, wincing away from that particular memory.  "No, Spike – the ringleader was the one who shot Tara."

"What?"  He could remember the tall one clearly, smell the ambition and greed and arrogance on him.  For Warren to have even existed in the same world as Tara was vile.  For him to have taken her life was practically sacrilege.  "Bastard."

"Yeah."  Dawn hesitated again, and Spike looked at her, concerned.  "He went all crazy, came after Buffy in the backyard, but she's fine!" she added hurriedly, as Spike's knuckles bulged, his grip on the steering wheel tightening.  "He got her, but Willow fixed it.  So, I guess that part was good."

"And then."  His voice had lost all intonation, and Dawn rushed to finish the story.

"And then Giles came, because Will was trying some sort of apocalypse thing – I know, you missed one, shocking – and she DID try to kill all of us, but then Xander got to her and made her stop.  I don't know about that, though – Buffy and I were about thirty feet under in the cemetery."  She twisted the drawstrings of her pants in her lap.  "Xander won't tell us what happened, but it all stopped."

"Right.  Good."  Spike's tone remained even, impersonal.  Calculating.  She watched him as he mentally sifted through the information, unsure of what to do or say next.

Spike himself was having a hard time sorting it all out.  Two years gone, all of this was.  He told his muscles to relax; they had tensed during Dawn's explanation, and they didn't understand the passage of time as well as his mind did.  He felt pity and rage and despair, but most of all, numbness.  This fight hadn't been his.  It was long over, the participants were all two years away from it.  And so he carefully, clinically deadened his reactions.  Removed them from himself.  He, too, would treat the entire event as dead and gone.  He breathed.  In and out. 

"Well, bit."  His voice was startling in the stillness he'd created, but he gave it no thought.  "Were there any other world-ending events?"

Dawn smiled hesitantly.  "Well, Clem got a girlfriend.  That could be considered apocalyptic."

Spike chuckled, and the serious mood was broken.  Dawn eased her posture and drew one knee up to her chest, musing aloud.  

"Yeah, a live-in, gorgeous girlfriend!  So, in other words, you're not going back to the crypt."  She looked at him apologetically.  "Besides, it's totally overrun with cats.  He's the equivalent of the creepy old lady who lived down the street until her corpse was found half-eaten by her ninety tabbies."

"Vivid," Spike said.  Dawn shrugged.

"He's nice, it's just a little – overwhelming.  And, you know, smells of cat all the time.  So I don't go to the crypt that much…  On the home front, Xander moved into the house.  With Buffy and me."  She watched Spike very carefully as she spoke, but the car didn't swerve off the road, Spike didn't hit the brakes – he didn't even flinch.  She continued.  

"It's not like they're dating or anything.  It just worked out that way.  You know, after breaking up with Anya and everything.  Besides, the money helped and - you're just going to have to see how all that worked out later," she rushed, suddenly impatient.  She was beginning to recognize the surroundings, and her nerves were getting to her.  Besides, there was one more thing she needed to talk to him about.

"Spike?"

"Bit?"

"What happened with Buffy? What made you leave?"

Spike froze.  She hadn't asked in all this time; he thought he was safe.  He'd been planning to touch on the subject, obliquely, tell her that he and Buffy might have some problems when they met… But there she sat, just looking at him, expecting an answer.  She might think it was Buffy's fault that I left, he realized.  Dawn was always that bit protective of him. She wouldn't have a clue.  But to tell her… 

He swallowed roughly.  She would hate him.  She would want to kill him, and he couldn't blame her.  Oz hadn't been particularly gentle about this certain transgression, either.  But she'd asked, and he couldn't lie.  Wouldn't lie.  He loved her enough not to lie.

"I attacked Buffy, when she was already hurt," he said.  "I was crazy, off my head, and I just…"  Saying it, with the images running through his head, made him feel ill.  He pulled to the side of the road, rested his head on his hands where they gripped the steering wheel.  His breath was coming quickly, in shudders, as he tried to focus on speaking.  Trying to tell her.

"Spike, are you okay?"

"God, no, bit.  I'm not."  His eyes watered, blurring his vision, head still down.  "I'm not, Dawn, and I wasn't then.  I attacked her.  I threw her to the floor, and hurt her, and made her hate me.  Unforgivable, Dawn.  Irrevocable.  And if she dusts me the moment you get in the door, I won't blame her."  

He could hear Dawn breathing, quickly.  He lifted his head a little, eyes closed.  "I dream of it a lot.  Of what happened.  Usually, she kills me at the end.  And usually I want her to." 

"But what…?"  Dawn asked softly.

"You'll have to ask her the rest, Dawn.  Because I'm not – I can't…"  He breathed deeply, trying to get himself under control.  Finally, he looked up at her with reddened eyes and finished.

"Dawn, anything she tells you is true.  Whatever she says, no matter how horrible – believe her, I did it.  To her, when she was close to me.  When she'd let me in…" his speech was halting, and he paused to control it.  

"I can't tell you – she's your sister, and she has the right to keep her own counsel.  But I was wrong.  I was hurtful and gave her every reason to kill me."  He winced.  "I made her feel things no one should ever have to feel."

Dawn studied him.  "And?" she asked softly.  Her stare was so calm, solid, impassive; Spike wanted to hide from it.  But she deserves this much, he told himself.  At least this one person, he would love correctly.

"I can't bear to think of it, Dawn."  He shut his eyes briefly, but forced them open again, determined to face this head-on.  "I can't help it, and I can't change what happened, but I see it all the time.  Every time I think of it, I feel sick, like there's a hole in my chest.  My head clouds; I see what happened, what I said, what I DID, over and over again.  And I can't excuse it, ever.  I can't explain it away.  It's the single most despicable thing I've done, and I think of it every day.  It's always there, and I'm more ashamed than I knew was possible."  

He unconsciously placed his hand over his stomach; the tingling, aching, throbbing feeling was familiar now, but he never expected to get used to the physical manifestation of shame.  He shuddered silently.  Minutes passed on the side of the road as he clutched his gut, doubled over in silent anguish.  Dawn's breath slowed as she watched him, but she waited until his halting breaths had evened before she spoke.

"She did."  Dawn said.  She hadn't moved from her seat, still curled up against the door, but Spike didn't understand her words.  She said it again.

"She did.  Tell me."  Pause.  "Buffy told me what happened in the bathroom that day."

Unbidden, a guttural sound came from Spike; it sounded as though he'd just been punched.  He stared at Dawn, wide-eyed.

"So I knew, and I've known all along."  Dawn's poise was perfect, but stern.  Far from a teenager, she reminded Spike of a queen.  Regal.  Distant.  To be reckoned with.

"I'm not sure that she ever would have told me, Spike," she said honestly.  "But Xander gave me the short-and-shocking version, so I think she had to repair some of the damage.  She told me what happened, but she's never told me what she felt."

"Oh," Spike breathed.  Dazed.  She had known, and called him family.  She knew, and said she loved him.  His head ached.

"I don't know what's going on there," she added frankly.  "And I can't tell you what she'll do.  But," she added, "I don't think she wants you dead.  I guess you'll just have to ask her about that yourself, 'cause I'm not going to tell you more.  You might need to talk to each other, or you might need to go far away – but I love you both, and I don't know what to do here."

After she finished, they were silent.  Spike didn't know what to think of this strangely mature girl, who behaved in ways contrary to everything he knew.  There was nothing more to say, so he pulled back onto the road, his confused mind focused on the task at hand.  "Dawn.  I'm so sorry."

Dawn gazed at him.  "Yeah, I know.  You're also pretty guilty about it.  And I won't lie, I'm damn glad you are."  Spike nodded shortly.  Wouldn't have it any other way, he said to himself.  

"Do you want to see her again?"

Spike answered the question immediately.  "Only if she wants to see me." He'd been thinking about that question for two years now, and his reply was utterly truthful.  He would never force anything on her again.  Dawn drew the same conclusion, watching the resolve on his face.

"I'd do this any other way, if I could," he admitted.  "This isn't fair, just turning up, but I couldn't put you on a bus or taxi or anything; you'd have to tell her about me eventually, and the longer it's put off, the more like lying it becomes."  He pressed his lips together tight.  "So I'll bring you home, then leave.  If she wants to talk to me, I'll do whatever she wants.  But I'll drive back to New Hampshire and never come here again, otherwise." Two days of highways had formulated the plan, and it was all he could come up with right now.  It would have to do.

But he was still curious about something.

"Bit?"

"Yeah?"  She looked out the window, the breeze brushing her hair back from her face.  It was early, so early the paperboys hadn't made their rounds, but the curious light that preceded daybreak cast its bluish sheen on Dawn's upturned face.

"Why did you ask?"  He stammered a bit in asking.  "I mean – if you already knew."

"Because I'd already heard it from Xander, and from parts from Buffy.  But you're the one who did it.  I needed to hear it from YOU."  She stated it honestly and seriously, unsmiling.  She couldn't smile right now.  Maybe later, once she'd seen her sister.  But not right now.  

"Besides, that was a weird time.  She was so mean to you all the time, and then you went off with Anya, and I can't even pretend to comprehend a tiny bit of what was going with all of you.  It didn't help that you all kept me in the dark, about EVERYTHING, but still."  She shrugged.  "I don't get it, obviously.  It's a confusing thing for me to take a stand on.  This is a you-and-Buffy thing; if she doesn't want to see you, then I guess we'll know where she stands.  But for now, I'm withholding judgment.  She's my sister, and I love her, but she's shutting me out.  You're my friend, and I love you, but you hurt her."  She shook her head, frustrated.

"I know I'm way out of my depth here.  I don't know what to feel, so I'm waiting for one of you to tell me."

"Oh."  Spike didn't understand, but he'd learned that there were many things he didn't understand in the past years.  He kept driving.

"Spike," she relented, placing one slender hand on his arm, "It'll be okay.  Nothing's really changed between you and me, we just got this out in the open."  She sighed.  "And I did miss you, think about you, either way." 

Her hand was light on his arm, but he treasured the feeling of it.  After all, who knew when someone would touch him gently and carefully again?

"Can't we just wait until she goes to work?"  Dawn asked as Spike stopped the van at the bottom of Revello.  Her calm demeanor had ebbed away as they approached the development, and she was now worriedly rocking in her seat.

"She works?"  Spike wasn't really invested in the question, trying to deal with his own emotions.  Too much pushing from Dawn, he realized, and he might just give in and drive away.  

"Yeah, at a bank.  Weird shifts, but it's a thing she does, she's been doing it for a while now," Dawn said, babbling.  "We could just wait until they both go to work; then they could come home and just find me in the house, and we wouldn't have this entire surprise-reunion-scenario going on."

"No."

"Why?"  Dawn panicked.  "It's not like you're all desperate to see her, and besides, it's getting kind of sunny."

"Firstly?  Daybreak's not for another fifteen minutes.  And secondly?"  He turned to her with new resolve.  "We may have made it out of the hospital without the police coming after us, but it's Monday morning, and there is no way in hell that the hospital hasn't found out your home number.  They'll call today."

"But I'm FINE!"  Dawn groaned, banging her head on the doorframe.  

"Their point exactly; they'll want the bill paid, and now.  And I don't want your sister to find out about your crash through a hospital accountant."  Spike restarted the engine and put the van into gear as Dawn thought that through.  

Coming up on the house was a surprise.  It was a lot smaller than Spike remembered.  But it looked the same.  Dread washed over him and he shuddered; just looking at it reminded him of his last time in that house, upstairs, where he never should have been…

"Okay.  Are we going to do this?"  Dawn was jittery; the combination of her injury, her escort and her sudden appearance were beginning to add up in her head.  And her arithmetic resulted in this being a very, very bad idea.  Her leg spasmed violently, involuntarily, and she gasped as her blanketed foot connected sharply with the dashboard.

Spike was out of the van in an instant, barely giving the dangerously light sky a second glance.  He pulled open Dawn's door and knelt, carefully checking his impromptu splint.

"Too tender?" he asked, gently touching her toe.  She shook her head, but he didn't want to risk it.  He hesitantly held his arms out, asking if he could carry her. 

The expression on his face reminded Dawn of a kicked puppy.  Dawn flinched.  No more pet names, then.  No more camaraderie.  She hoped this awkwardness would be over soon; she didn't like her estrangement from Spike.  But she didn't want to hurt her sister, and her stomach twisted violently at the thought of carelessly springing Spike on Buffy.  

Had she misjudged her sister?  Dawn hadn't wanted to mention it to Spike - but a lot of the reason she was comfortable with him now, was because of Buffy.  Apparently, Buffy had still trusted him to help, trusted him with Dawn's life.  Had gone to him voluntarily.  And so, she thought nervously... maybe Buffy would be all right with this.  

But it was too much to second-guess, and her head was aching almost as much as her foot, so Dawn just wrapped her good arm around Spike's neck and let him lift her from the van, then stride across the lawn.

They were on the stoop in a matter of seconds; Dawn could feel Spike's ribs rise and fall erratically under her hip.  If his heart could beat, she was pretty sure that it'd be hammering through his chest.  Then again, her heart was making up for the lack.  It throbbed sharply, almost painfully, as she stared at the familiar bronze numbers. She wanted to run away.

"Right, Dawn."  

"Yeah, I know."  She pressed the doorbell, and Spike took a few steps back.  No need to be overwhelming, he supposed.  

Dawn nodded briskly at his movement, then suddenly reached up and planted a light kiss on Spike's cheek.  

He looked at her quizzically, unsure of whether he should smile or consider it a goodbye.  Dawn took a deep breath, letting out a gust of donut scent.  

"Okay.  Well, it has to be said - there's no way this thing can be anything but fucked up."  She shook her head wearily.

Spike chuckled weakly.  "Never has 'facing the firing squad' seemed so literal."

Voices could be heard inside the house, and Spike's arms tensed around Dawn.  She hugged him clumsily with her casted arm.  They clung to each other briefly, desperately.

"Thank you for bringing me home, Spike."

"You belong with your family," Spike replied, realizing too late the double edge of his words.  What he was about to lose, having just found it.  "I wish I could fix it, no matter what the cost."

Dawn smiled at him ruefully.  "I wish everything had a happy ending."

And then footsteps were at the door, the door was opening, and there was no time left for wishing.

TBC


	14. Break of Day

*

"Oh," Xander breathed.  "Oh, no."  

He lurched out the door, his hands outstretched.  He was already dressed for work; his yellow Timberland boots, a pair of worn jeans, a lumberjack shirt that had seen better days.  His hands, too, showed the wear and tear of manual labor.  Calloused, worn, scaled, with dirt clinging stubbornly onto nails cut to the quick.  And those hands, thick and grasping, are what caused Spike to dance backwards, Dawn still his arms.  How could Xander, so used to clutching steel and wood, know how fragile Dawn had become?

"No, Harris, wait…" Spike said quickly, still watching the other man warily.  And that was when recognition dawned on Xander's face, when the accented words of a dark-haired man suddenly caused his blood to run cold.

Xander's face leached of all color as he took in Spike, standing outside his house, with Dawn in his arms.  Dawn looked wan, with dark circles under her eyes, and she had apprehension on her face.  No wonder, thought Xander as his rage built.  Something was wrong with her arm, with her leg, and Spike was trying to hold her back, make a bargain.  He flushed in fury, but came to a standstill a few feet from the pair, eyes smoldering.

"Give her to me."  His voice was lower than Spike remembered, and the sheer control the boy was exerting was impressive.  It was obvious Harris longed to rip Dawn from his grasp, out of harm's way, and then tear Spike to pieces.  But that was exactly what Spike feared – someone would grab Dawn roughly, trying to save her, and kill her instead.

"Harris, she's fine," he said.  Calmly, he nudged Dawn in a subtle appeal for help.

"Yeah!  It's okay, Xander, he didn't hurt me," Dawn stammered.  She'd thought Xander would be at work by now, that Buffy would be the one to deal with.  But there was no sign of her sister, and Xander's sheer hatred of Spike would make any conversation difficult.  "Xander, I'm fine, really!"

"Put.  Her.  Down."  His tone hadn't changed.  His eyes flickered briefly to Dawn, but for the most part he focused on Spike.  Dawn had always had a soft spot for the piece of filth.  Xander stared at him with deadly intent.  Dawn's words had no effect on him.  She was biased, under Spike's influence, after all.

Watching the man ignore Dawn, seeing how he allowed baser emotions to prevail, Spike snapped.  "Focus, Harris!  I can't put her down, she can't bloody STAND, her ankle's shot!"  He spun Dawn around so that Xander would have to look at her wrapped leg.  

Xander allowed himself a glance, and his face softened briefly.  Not for long.

"Fine, I'll carry her," he stated flatly.  But as he reached out his arms again, demanding, and stepped towards them, Spike stepped back again.  Xander snarled, flashing Spike a look.  "What?  What the hell do you want, something in exchange?"

"Xander!"  Dawn shouted, pulling herself into a more upright position, clumsily maneuvering her arm.  "Stop it!  NOW!"

And he did, if only for the fact that she sounded so like Buffy for a moment.  He dropped his arms to his sides, breathing heavily.  Waiting.

"Look, he's only HERE because he didn't want to make me crawl to the front door, okay?"  Dawn was shivering with rage, small movements that reverberated up Spike's arms.  She knew that most of her anger was unwarranted, but she unleashed it on Xander gladly.  She was nervous, she was tired, and she'd just had some pretty intense conversations with Spike.  And the way Xander was acting towards her, after she'd been gone so long… Standing there, threatening Spike, like she didn't even exist?  Treating her like just another victim to be rescued?  Her emotions boiled over, and she made no effort to rein them in.  

Years of being treated as a child, built-up slights and being ignored, all of it came rushing out of her in a torrent.  She'd make him listen to her, this time.

"Jesus, Xander!  How fucking horrible can you be?  I got hurt, and he picked me up from the hospital, drove me CROSS-COUNTRY to bring me home, bought me food and a quilt and didn't sleep JUST so we could be here before the hospital called Buffy!  And he didn't WANT to come back, Xander!  He wanted to stay far, far away!"  She was sobbing now, ripping gasps that she had to force her words through. 

"And now, I don't know why the hell we came home at all!  Because I HATE being talked over!  I HATE being 'taken care of' without someone asking my opinion!  And I HATE that YOU answered the door!"  She was losing control again, and her exhaustion suddenly caused the whole experience of her accident come rushing back.  Any defenses she'd built up crumbled away as she remembered the trouble she'd gone through to get to Sunnydale, and she felt her mind give way.  

"I want my SISTER!"

She began to shake even harder, so hard that Spike began to worry about her injuries. Ignoring Xander, he crouched on the front lawn, trying to give Dawn more support with his body.  He settled her in his lap, slipping one arm from under her legs and pulling her closer.

She turned to him, both arms clinging to him tight.  Completely lost, she burrowed her face into his neck, keening loudly, repeating the one phrase over and over again.  Spike tried to soothe her, gently brushing her hair back, rocking her, murmuring quietly, but she was beyond his reach.  

Panic began to build in him; he hadn't realized how hard the drive had been on Dawn, and the last thing he wanted Buffy to see was this image.  But he knew what his girl needed, and he wasted no time in demanding it for her.

"Get Buffy."

Xander glowered, but obeyed; Dawn's visible breakdown rattled him.  Without taking his eyes off of Dawn, he shouted back through the open door.  "Buff!  Get out here, and bring a stake."  He lowered his voice, his face blank.

"Spike, if you're trying to get back into her life…"  The threat was thinly veiled.  Unfortunately, Dawn was coherent enough to hear him, and she pulled away just long enough to hiss at him. Xander was taken aback for a moment.  Then he sneered.

"That your influence, Spike?"

Again, Spike decided to ignore him.  He was too busy with Dawn to bother with posturing.  "Did you hear, Dawn?  Buffy's coming, love.  She'll be here soon."  Dawn hiccupped against his shoulder, her hot, halting sobs warming his neck.  "Oh, love – it'll be all right, I'm here, she's coming.  Don't pay any mind to him, nibblet."  

Xander flushed and looked ready to insult Spike again, but a sleepy voice distracted him.  

"What?  Xander, I've got to get up in an hour, and I'm really…"  Spike looked up, and there she was.

She'd changed her hair, he thought.  Not that he found it surprising; he'd actually be more shocked if her hair had been the same.  A light chocolate brown, falling to her shoulders in waves.  The face was the same, the eyes, the mouth – he cut himself off before he could think further along that track.  What mattered now was that she was darting towards him, her bathrobe flapping around her, the tank-top-and-flannel pajamas mirroring her sister perfectly.  

"Oh, god, no!"  Buffy choked, crashing to her knees beside Dawn with little grace.  Her face was slack with shock, and Spike felt ill.  Oh no, this was not the picture he wanted to give her.

Dawn jolted upright at the sound of her sister's voice, her head connecting with Spike's jaw hard enough to make him see stars.  Buffy reached out instantly, and Dawn began to clamber over to her, awkwardly trying to work around her cast and splint. 

"Love, careful!  Careful!"  Spike frantically tried to ease Dawn over to Buffy without twisting any of her limbs, but Dawn was making it difficult.  She had wrapped her arms around Buffy's neck and was mindlessly clinging to her, twisted oddly between Spike and her sister.  He deftly straightened her limbs, reoriented her body until she was properly curled up, a child in Buffy's embrace.

"I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm just crying because I'm upset!" Dawn assured her sister hysterically, tears pouring down her face.  "I'm sorry I'm crying, I can't help it!  I'm not hurt, not really, and there isn't any trouble, you don't need a stake…" She was ranting, babbling now, and Buffy hushed her gently, pulling her closer and kissing her brow.  Dawn shuddered into her sister's arms, allowing herself to be calmed, rocked, soothed.  

Spike backed up a little, wary of intruding on the reunion any more than necessary.  

"You don't call her love," Xander grated behind him.  It took Spike a moment to realize what he was talking about.

"Piss off, I was talking to Dawn," Spike spat back.  But he could feel the man hovering behind him, watching.  Irritating.

Buffy either missed the vibe between Xander and the vampire, or she just ignored it. All of her attention was focused on the girl in her arms, crooning softly to her.

"Dawnie, it's fine, it's okay.  Oh, honey."  She tilted Dawn's chin, looking at her tear-streaked face.  "Where does it hurt?  And how?"

"M-my arm, and my ankle," she choked out. "But it wasn't Spike!  It was an accident!  He helped me, please don't hurt him!"  One of her arms flew out in an wildly protective gesture, as though she were trying to sweep Spike behind her.  The tips of her fingers brushed his jacket lapel and she clung, tightly.

Spike glanced up at Buffy, painfully aware of the awkwardness of the situation.  Buffy just shrugged helplessly.  Dawn was clearly marking her attachment to Spike, and in that one gesture, had grouped them into a unit.  With Dawn so unstable, Buffy wasn't willing to do anything to upset her.  

It was a strange picture.  Dawn had grown lankier in her year away, and was now taller than her sister; she draped over Buffy awkwardly, though the smaller woman supported her well.  With one hand clutching Spike, she had unconsciously formed a bridge between them.  Buffy and Spike avoided each others' eyes, devoted to the girl on the grass between them.  A tenuous link, but a link nonetheless.  

Xander noted all of this bitterly from his position a few feet away.  Something inside him realized that he could have been a part of that group, possibly could have even taken Spike's place in it.  But he'd missed the chance, if it had ever existed.  All that was left to him now was to stand on the outskirts, watching grimly, waiting for the sun to rise.

"She's delicate right now," breathed Spike, gently brushing Dawn's tear-drenched hair behind her ear.  He was very careful not to touch Buffy at all.  "I'm sure she'll tell you everything, but she was in an accident.  She's rebroken the arm Willow broke," he said, and Buffy's eyes hardened momentarily.  "But the ankle's only sprained, isn't it, petal?"

Dawn nodded tiredly, her head lolling on Buffy's shoulder.  "Yeah, the splint's all Spike; there's an aircast under there somewhere."  She looked at Spike plaintively.  "Cant' we talk about this later?  I mean, there isn't anything really important, is there?  I'm so tired…"  She was too wrung out to cry again; she just implored him with reddened eyes.

Spike relented.  "'Course, bit."  He smiled gently at her, and delicately unhooked her fingers from his lapel.  He glanced at Buffy.  

"You all right to carry her upstairs?" he asked.

Buffy snorted.  "Yeah – I know she'd bigger than me, but she's got nothing on some of the nastier demons I've come across.  She's light as a feather in comparison, it'll just look weird."  She began to gather Dawn together, until Spike held out a hand in warning.

"Careful," he stressed as Buffy looked at him warily.  "Ask the hospital when they call, but she's got some sort of brittle-bone condition.  She's got to be really careful with her movements; she might have hurt her ankle more on the way here, can't quite tell."  Spike grimaced.  "That's why we made the trip in the first place – weren't sure how the Key qualities would mix with a hospital investigation.  Figured you could have her checked out here.  You know, where you'd be close by, just in case things got a little hairy." 

Buffy stared at him for a moment, expressionless, then nodded.  Carefully but effortlessly, she lifted Dawn up and headed back to the house.  After a moment Spike rose from the grass, brushed the dew from his jeans, and followed.

Xander had returned to the door, and he held it wide open so Buffy could get through without difficulty.  "I'm just going to tuck her in, she's wiped," Buffy muttered to him as they passed.  He nodded silently.  Dawn was already nodding off, he noticed.  Poor kid, completely knocked for a loop. 

Outside, Spike stopped at the bottom of the stoop, watched Buffy carry Dawn up the stairs.  Buffy was right – it looked odd, but she carried Dawn's weight without a sign of discomfort or awkwardness. He smiled inwardly.  Apparently, the woman didn't have limits.  Either that or she just refused to recognize them, and they surrendered in the face of her stubbornness.

Xander waited until the last stair creaked before turning to Spike.  The vampire had a distant look on his face;  Xander reveled in the thought of his alienation.

"What," Xander crowed.  "You thought that she'd invite you in?  That you would all play house for a while; the slayer, the vampire and their mystical ward?  Dream on."  He leaned against the doorjamb casually.  An affectation.  Spike steeled himself, lips pressed together thinly.

"I'm not here for that," he muttered.  He didn't want to look at Harris, but the man was making an effort to be intrusive.  "I'm here for them."

Xander's eyes lit up.  "THEM?" he vented.  "So you admit to coming back for Buffy?  Oh, man.  You sick bastard."  His sneer, his eyes, were all caught up in a superior smirk; he enjoyed this chance to kick a downed man.  His voice became silky-smooth, and he leaned forward a little, enunciating clearly.

"After what you did to her, she'll never forgive you.  Don't you get that?"  His stare flashed cruelly.  "You may have sucked Dawn back in, Spike, but Buffy's not dumb.  She won't forget.  Ever."

Both men heard a door shutting upstairs, but Xander wasn't finished.  He lowered his voice; it lost none of its venom.  

"Maybe you helped Dawn; that means nothing.  She'll never love you, or trust you, and even better?"  He smiled harshly.  "She'll make sure Dawn doesn't see you again.  So you can consider that last scene your curtain call.  Hope you enjoyed it."  Footsteps coming down the stair silenced him again, but Xander smirked triumphantly.  He'd said all he needed to.

Buffy reappeared in the doorway, looking apprehensively at the two men. She was too confused to deal with the nasty vibes they were giving off right now.  "I've tucked her into my bed, I think she's okay, just emotional and exhausted."  She rubbed her hand over her eyes.  "I'm going to call the hospital now, get the full report.  Or the financial damage, whatever."  She sighed deeply.  It was not something she looked forward to.  "But at least Dawn's here, and safe."

Xander smiled at her broadly, slinging an arm around her shoulders.  Buffy let him, though she sensed more in it than a show of friendship.  She turned her glance to the bottom of the stoop, where Spike stood, head bowed.  

He looked… kind of broken, she realized.  She twitched uncomfortably, all too aware that Xander's good humor must have a source.  And with Spike standing below him, looking hurt, bereft – that could definitely brighten his day.  She sighed, gazing at the lone figure at her doorstep.  There were so many things that had to be said, that should be mentioned… 

"Your hair is brown!" she blurted out.  Xander stiffened beside her, but his arm didn't move from her shoulders.  Below her, Spike squinted up, smiling ruefully.  He'd changed, she thought.  Maybe it was the absence of peroxide; he seemed gentler somehow.  

"Always was," he replied, self-consciously raising a hand to muss it.  He half-grinned.  "Yours too, I notice."  She didn't reply, still studying his appearance.  Spike stiffened.  This wasn't the time or place, or company, for small talk.  He ducked away again.

"Needed a change."  He shrugged nonchalantly, but there was a tenseness to him that made Buffy wary.  She reached out with her senses.  Nope, couldn't pick up on anything.  Except - suddenly, she blinked and peered up at the sky.

"Spike.  It's almost dawn… shouldn't you be somewhere dark?"  She said it with a measure of concern, he noted, and it made his heart a little lighter.  Truthfully, he was pushing the sun-limits even now; he could feel the hot, tight sensation on the surface of his skin that preceded daylight.  He guessed he only had a few more minutes before he began smoking.

"Yeah, I should."  He recognized a good exit line when he heard it, and began to back away.  "Be seeing you, then."

Buffy watched as he slouched away, a crease forming on her brow.  There was something about this entire setup she didn't like, she realized.  Spike had brought back Dawn, and Dawn was frantic to proclaim his chivalry, but now… 

Now, she was watching him leave, without a word of thanks, standing with a gloating Xander in the doorway of their home.  And something wrenched inside her.  This was wrong, to leave it this way.  Xander overbalanced a little as she suddenly slipped out from under his arm, leaped down the steps, and crossed the lawn to Spike.  

He heard her coming.  At least, he thought her heard her coming, but it could be wishful thinking.  He thought he smelled her, all soap and sun.  But he refused to turn around, in case he'd imagined it all.  He wouldn't be that foolish, too look back only to find the door closed, Buffy gone.  Or worse, Harris glaring at him.  He refused to be that fool.

He just slowed his pace a little, even though the sun was rising, his skin was burning, and he knew he was on borrowed time.  It would be sweet though, he supposed.  Burning to ash with the bizarre conviction that she was just a few steps away from him, that she was just about to speak to him.  He could char happily with that delusion in his heart.

And so he was a little shocked when she said his name as he reached the door of the van, a voice from only feet away.  He turned and there she stood. Uncomfortably, he realized, but there wasn't much he could do about that.  Everyone was uncomfortable.  He shifted.

"Yeah?"

Buffy flushed.  Pretty.  

"Spike."  She tasted the word as she said it, still unsure of how it felt on her tongue.  She rushed on.  "I know you've got to take off, but thanks for helping Dawn."  She half-shrugged shyly.  "She likes you, and I'm sure it made everything a lot easier, having a friend with her."

Spike smiled hesitantly.  "No matter, she's worth it.  And, right.  You're welcome."  They both stared at the ground, stalled.  Talking had never been a strong point, especially in natural light.

Daylight.  The sunburnt feeling was getting worse, and Spike really needed to get out of the breaking morning.  He glanced at the van and suddenly noticed something he could use to break the silence.  Perfect. It was a moment's work to reach in and retrieve it.

"Here," he said, handing Buffy the mass of quilt.  "She likes thi – well, actually, she despises it, but I think she's gotten a little attached.  She's named it Fugly, by the way."  

Buffy laughed.  "Figures.  Way to circumvent the non-swearing rule once again."  She wrapped her arms around the bundle, swamped by its sheer size.  They looked at each other and smiled.

"Can Clem find you?" she asked abruptly. Her face was barely visible above the bedspread, and he couldn't quite see the shape of her mouth as she asked.  

"Uh, yeah – probably will look in on him, see what he's done with the old place."  He hadn't thought about it, really, but it seemed important right now.  He would see Clem, if she needed him to.

"Good."  Her voice had an air of determination.  "Then I'll tell him if I need to talk to you.  About Dawn."

He smiled, dazedly.  "Yeah, sure.  Glad to help."  He would definitely visit Clem.

"Good."  She nodded definitively, and stepped back from the van.  Spike took the hint.

"Right, then.  I'm off.  Tell the nibblet to get well soon."  

He hoisted himself into the van, businesslike.  Buffy began to head back to the house, trying to fold Fugly into a more manageable shape.  Neither of them looked back as they parted, each head whirling with conflicted thoughts.  Trapped in their own worlds, neither noticed as the sun rose on another morning in Sunnydale.

TBC


	15. Friends and Favors

*

"Hello, dearie, well don't you look nice today!  I love it when the spring comes around, all the girls wearing pastels, reminds me of Monet, doesn't it?  And I just said to myself, I said, 'Why not take a walk into town?', what with the nice weather and I heard it's going to rain tomorrow.  And then I remembered that I had all these silly checks that I just can't keep track of, and I'm so hopeless at addition, wouldn't you be a sweet girl to total it up for me?"  

With that, the elderly woman reached into her cardigan pocket and produced a huge wad of crumpled-up papers.  She set the entire handful down on the counter and began to smooth out selected scraps, humming happily.  Buffy sighed as she recognized a couple of promotional checks in the heap, "You May Be A Winner" clearly emblazoned on their faces.

"Ma'am, I think some of those are just advertisements…" she ventured, trying to get a better look.  Suddenly, the woman's hand smacked down on top of the pile, sending wadded paper everywhere.  Buffy looked up, startled, to see the formerly-kindly lady draw herself up and fix her with a beady eye.

"How dare you accuse me of lying!"  Two pink spots had appeared on either side of the woman's nostrils, and Buffy focused on them involuntarily as the woman continued to bristle.  "I demand to speak to your manager!"  

Ugh, no, thought Buffy.  Not again.  "Ma'am, I don't think you're lying, but see this writing?  It says…"

"I certainly don't need some teenybopper telling me about my finances!  I've been depositing checks in this bank since 1953!"  The woman's voice was getting more and more shrill, causing other customers to stop and stare.  Buffy looked at them and shrugged apologetically.  "I want your name, miss!  And your manager!"

Buffy abruptly got tired of this.  She'd been on shift for six hours now, and her mind wasn't really on the job.  With Dawn at home, Xander in a raging mood, and Spike in town, one little old lady was just proving too much.

"Yeah, cool."  She cut the woman off mid-rant and made her way down the counter to Neil's office.  About the last person she wanted to see right now – or ever, for that matter – but she'd happily dump her customer on him.  Crazy Lady HAD asked for the manager…

She poked her head through the door.  "Neil?  Customer on three."  She tried to skip out again as quickly as she'd entered, but Neil was already on his feet.

"Again?"  He made his way around the desk, and Buffy tried her best not to shudder.  She couldn't help it.  Something about this weedy, wormy little man just GOT to her.  Something about his pasty white skin, the watery blue eyes, the head that had been shaved to preempt the signs of  pre-30s balding…  Gah.  She backed away from him, trying not to be obvious about her revulsion.

"Oh, Elizabeth," he sighed.  Neil shook his head regretfully, heaving a deep sigh.  He leaned back against his desk in his best 'boss' pose, wide beady eyes staring.  "We've talked about your interaction with the customers before, and you've really got to improve your interpersonal skills and managerial independence."

"Hunh?"  Yeah, Neil – that might have been English.  "No, Neil, she's got those Ed Macmahon coupons, she's trying…"

"Well, did you explain to her the difficulties of promotional materials in the proper manner?  You've had enough time to read the entire manual, I would hope..."

Buffy rolled her eyes.  She was too tired for this right now.  "Neil, she's trying to cash a one million dollar check.  She asked for you, I'm getting you.  I tried, I failed, she conquered.  I'm covered in shame, and I'm going to go give myself a stern talking-to later, I promise.  But right now, she's wigging at the desk, so I think you might want to check on her."

Neil straightened up, his face pulling tight.  "And you, Elizabeth, might find it useful to reintroduce yourself to our terms of service in the back.  The blue binder set, just in case you don't recognize it.  You might as well take it out of your lunch break."  

He brushed past her, and her skin crawled.  Why couldn't he be a demon, she thought despairingly.  The one person she wanted to kill outright, and not a horn or tentacle in sight.  Just a glistening bald pate, with that one throbbing blue vein right above the right temple, matching his translucent blue eyes… she shivered and instinctively scrubbed at her arms.  Mind cooties.

The little old lady pointed and shouted as Buffy slipped by her counter position.  Neil was already trying his patented "talk-louder-than-the-customer" technique, and the entire spectacle promised to be deafening.

"Don't slay the humans, no slaying of humans…' Buffy muttered under her breath as she stalked into the back room and leaned against the door of the safe.  The six-volume bank manual stared at her accusingly from the makeshift shelf, and 

Buffy was hit by a wave of despair. She was very conscious that her emotions were giving her two options: crying uncontrollably, or screaming at the top of her lungs.  Given that either would probably get her fired, she didn't see the point in delaying.  Slumping into the nearest chair, she laid her head on the kitchenette counter and waited for the onslaught to begin.  "I quit, I just quit."

"No.  Remember, you're not allowed to."  Ruth stepped through the back door, tossing the butt of her cigarette into a potted plant.  She tried to shut the door behind her quickly in a vain attempt to trap the fumes from her smoke-break outside, but the  tobacco fumes wafted in nonetheless.  Ruth made a face.

"Jesus – it's a bank!  You'd think you'd be able to close the doors quick when you need to."  She shook her head in disgust and marched over to one of the kitchenette cabinets.  She tossed a spray-bottle down to Buffy.

"No quitting.  We made a pact, we don't leave the other one here to rot and despair.  'Breeze me."  Buffy smiled wanly and obeyed, dousing the woman in Febreeze as she spun, arms outstretched.  Ruth's body-hugging sweaters and long skirts did tend to carry the scent of tobacco with them, and Buffy wasn't sure how much the spritzing helped.  

"Does this stuff actually work?" she mused, trying to read the back of the bottle.

"Don't know, don't care – keeps Neil off my back."  Ruth took the bottle back and stowed it as she peeked out to the front counter.  Her lips twisted downward sourly.

"Got chased off by the prick, I see," she spat.  Ruth's hatred of Neil was never far below the surface, and was probably the only thing that kept Buffy from killing Neil outright.  No matter how vile he was, how pompous, how rude, Buffy would never, ever be able to hate him more than Ruth already did.  It perked her up a little.

"Yeah, but I foisted some crazy lady off on him.  He'll be busy for a while."  Buffy watched Neil at the counter for a moment, wincing as she heard his voice crescendo in competition with the customer's ranting.  She cocked her head.  

"Does he even know that he's really unbelievably rude?  To everyone?"

"Refer to previous 'don't know, don't care' reply, but this time with deepest sincerity," said Ruth, snagging a Wheat Thin out of the open box on the counter.  She casually rattled the box to check its contents, then extended it to Buffy.  "Eat some of these before I finish them off."

"No, thanks."  Buffy rested her chin on her crossed arms, looking miserably out of the window as Ruth began to chatter.  She hadn't eaten all day, but she didn't feel like it right now.  Every time she tried to focus, images went flashing through her head.  Dawn, Xander, last night's fight, Spike beginning to smoke in the morning sun….

"Hola, chiquita, you're missing out on my fascinating theory.  It involves Neil, a maverick Russian robotics corporation, a sudden lack of funding and then program budget cuts under the heading of 'human social interaction skills'."  Ruth pushed her gently on the shoulder, and Buffy shook her head, blinking.  "But something tells me that you're not really going to be into the theory humor right now.  You feeling okay?"

Buffy shook her head wearily, trying to clear it.  "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine."  Ruth gave her a look, and she relented.  

"Okay, fine, I'm totally zoning out, have been all morning, feel like crap and could probably kill all the customers with a stapler.  At this point, without provocation."  She sighed, rubbing her eyes.  "It shows that much?"

"Only when you talk, walk, or interact in any way."  Ruth slumped into a chair next to her, digging into the box of crackers.  "Seriously, Summers, what's up?  I haven't seen you this out of it in ages.  You sick or something?"

Buffy took a deep breath and let it out in a gust, half hoping that Ruth would just drop the topic.  But Ruth knew her too well; when Buffy finally looked at her, she was just sitting expectantly, daintily munching cracker after cracker.  Waiting.  

Buffy cradled her forehead in her palm, fingers covering her eyes to block out the light.

"An…." Uh.  "Old friend came back to town this morning – totally unexpected."

"I see we're saying 'friend' with air-quotes," Ruth quipped.  "Which, of course, means that opportunities for mackage abound."

"No, no."  Buffy shook her head.  "He came with my sister."

Ruth's eyes widened.  "Oh, so that should be SMACKAGE, rather than mackage – how the hell old is Dawn anyhow?  Twelve?"

Buffy laughed in spite of herself.  "No, not like that!  She was flying home to surprise me, there was plane trouble, she got hurt, he drove her home.  No nothing of any kind."  She paused.  "Ever." 

"Good to hear.  Well, not about the hurting, but the rest…"  Ruth settled back against the counter, squinting out of the window.  "So she's okay?"

"Yeah, she's fine, I left her at home, casts and everything.  She's asleep, I think."

"Right.  Yeah."  Ruth was obviously thinking hard, with the narrow-eyed concentration that made her so intimidating to the average customer.  Ruth's face at rest settled into an unconscious 'piss me off and die' expression which, according to Ruth, "Is very useful at work or on the street late at night, but not so good when someone's trying to set you up at a cocktail party.  Hence, single and fancy-free."  She'd smiled when she said it, but Buffy could tell it bothered her.

"So."  Ruth turned to her, businesslike.  "You're at work, even though your sister's at home, hurt."  Buffy nodded.  "And there's some guy around who…" she raised an eyebrow, "…is something different."

"To put it mildly," Buffy groaned.

"Exactly.  And you are here, for a nine-hour shift, even though there's all this important crap going on at home and you really should be there rather than here.  Right?"

Buffy's mouth twitched downwards – Ruth's diagnoses were often dead-on, and this was no exception.  "Yeah, right."  And after this morning's talk with the hospital accounts department, she'd need as many hours as possible to cover the bill.  She slumped further in her chair and peered over at her friend, who had gone very silent.

Ruth was still staring out of the window, and Buffy turned to watch her.  The rhythmic motion of her jaw as she chewed was oddly fascinating.  Circular, grinding, the little bits of cracker getting crushed into….

"Elizabeth."  

Buffy jumped as Neil entered the room.  "Yes!  What?  Hunh?"  

"Mrs. Eidleman has requested that you be reprimanded for your behaviour towards her, and I can't say I blame her.  We don't accuse our patrons of lying, Elizabeth – it's one of the many, many things we never say to them.  And this kind of slip shows a certain lack of respect for the profession in general, honestly…."

Buffy gaped at him.  "But I never said she lied!  SHE used the word, and then I got you!"

Neil continued as though she hadn't spoken.  "I think we might have to review your position here, Elizabeth.  Certainly something with less customer interaction, and the raise we usually offer at six months will have to be reviewed, but…"

Buffy's heart pounded in her chest.  Oh, not now.  Not now, of ALL times.  Her throat closed and her eyes blurred; she could see the house accounts changing in her mind.  Xander would have to pay too much – he would, because he'd never let her down, but she didn't want him to have to – and then with Dawn to feed, the possibility of more hospital bills… She was in such a daze, she almost missed Ruth's opening volley.

"Neil, stop being such an ass."

Neil blinked and his head shot up.  "Excuse me, Ruth?"

"You heard me, and we've worked here the exact same amount of time, you only got promoted a few months ago and I don't respond to power-tripping so don't try it.  Her sister was in a plane crash, arrived this morning, no one's at home with her, Buff's a little bit concerned about that because it's a human emotion and people sometimes feel those, Neil."  Ruth was on a roll now.  "And the fact that she came in today?  Shows professionalism, don't you think so, Neil?  But it'd probably be a good idea to let her go home now, take the rest of the day off, because frankly I don't want her to be around you, now you've made all those lovely little threats.  Which we'll be talking about as soon as she leaves." She smiled icily at Neil.  "Buffy, honey, grab your shit, you're going home."

Buffy paused for a split second before swiftly rising and heading for the cloakroom.  Ruth's voice, only slightly softer, continued behind her.

"Don't look at me like that – did you even ask her if there was something wrong?"  Silence.  "Yeah, going out on a limb to say no.  And Jesus, Neil – you know she'd never tell a customer that they were a liar.  Me, maybe, but never her.  So that was just dumb."  Ruth had obviously meant her to hear that bit, but then she lowered her volume and Buffy couldn't make out the rest of the conversation.  Just in case, she lingered in the cloakroom until all sounds of talking had stopped.

"Am I leaving?" she asked Ruth hesitantly.  Neil was nowhere to be seen.

"Yep, off you go."  Ruth rooted around in the cracker box, not looking at her.  "You're also off for the rest of the week."

"What?"  She panicked.  "Am I fired?"

"Hell, no, sweetie."  Ruth smiled up at her softly.  "You're just taking a few of your sick days to shore up your sister."

"But I don't have that many sick days saved up, do I?"  

"No, but you do have cover for the rest – I'll take two of them, and Marcus'll take the other.  As for the sick days – well, you never get sick, so I wouldn't worry."  She grinned at Buffy, who wasn't processing the news.  "Lord, woman!  We're taking your shifts so you can go back to your sister!  Don't look so shocked!  Head for the hills!"

"J-just let me know how much I owe you guys," Buffy stuttered.  "I don't know if accounting can work it out, but I could write you checks, too…"

"Oh, shut up," Ruth chuckled affectionately.  "We're covering you, you don't need to pay.  It's all right."

Buffy was stunned.  Ruth could see the emotions playing across her face silently, flickers of joy, confusion, suspicion, panic – it was as though the girl didn't understand how well-liked she had become at the branch in the past months.  Well, she'd just have to get used to it.

Ruth shrugged unapologetically.  "You don't have tons of cash, and it's no trouble for us to take your shifts.  With Dawn home you'll need it."  She looked at Buffy bemusedly.  "Buffy – we like you.  We're happy to do it, don't worry.  Besides – I kind of get the feeling you'd do it for us." 

Ruth wasn't expecting the blur of leather that enveloped her, but she handled it well, only spilling some of the Wheat Thins on the floor.  She could feel Buffy taking deep breaths in her arms, trying to pull herself together, and smiled.  "Watch out, kid – the Febreeze might kill you if you breathe it too deeply into your lungs."  She was rewarded with a shaky laugh, but when Buffy pulled away her eyes were bright and happy.

Ruth stood up as well, straightening her sweater.  She gave Buffy a gentle shove towards the door.  "Don't worry about Neil, it's not you, it's him – he was taking something out on the wrong person, and now he's got me to deal with."  She smiled evilly.  "I plan to enjoy this afternoon, don't you worry."  

Buffy was still standing there, grinning goofily.  Ruth snorted.  "Now take off before I change my mind or request payment for my services, and whoops, sounding like a hooker."

"Thank you, Ruth."  

"No problem, Buff.  Love to Dawn."  Ruth watched the brunette stride out the door and smiled to herself.  Poor kid – so much to deal with, and she so rarely let it get to her.  Days like this, she must just shatter…  Ruth turned and headed back to the front counter, smiling cheerfully.

A day in which she helped Buffy and demolished Neil?  Ahhhh… Life was good.

"Dawnie, I'm hooooo – HOLY CRAP!"

Xander dropped his keys and sprinted to the kitchen door where Dawn was clumsily hopping on one foot, her arms full.  He was beside her in a few steps; Dawn let out a soft whoop of surprise as he easily swept her up, letting the contents of her arms fall against his chest between them.  

"What are you doing out of bed?  Buffy's going to kill you!"

Dawn's reply was cut off by a voice from the living room.  

"Yeah, I will, if she doesn't get that ice cream in here soon.  Move your gimpy little ass, wench!" Dawn snorted and poked at Xander to let her down, but he ignored her completely, carting girl and ice cream together into the living room.

Buffy was lying on the couch, Fugly pulled up to her chin and an abandoned bag of microwave popcorn on the table beside her.  She waved cheerily at him as he entered, but was quickly distracted by the Ben and Jerry's pint that Dawn lobbed at her clumsily from across the room.  

Xander carefully set Dawn down in the depression Buffy had left along the inside of the couch, noticing the many empty cans of soda littering the windowsill.  "Well, I'm going to make a wild guess and dub this a sugar high?" he drawled.  

"Oh, there is no word to describe the amount of sugar I have in my system right now," Dawn snorted, turning her arm over to reveal two spoons stuck handle-first into the top of her cast and offering one to her sister.  Buffy scrunched up her face, but accepted.  "I think my teeth have turned into Chiclets."

"So… we're NOT in bed."  Xander rolled his eyes and collapsed to the floor in front of Buffy.  She offered him the ice cream lid and he set it on the coffee table.

"We're improvising," admitted Dawn.  She was wearing a new set of pajamas, he noticed, and she'd washed her hair somehow, and was now looking delighted to be home.

"Yeah, she got all uppity and wanted to take a shower and roam freely, so we made a deal: I washed her hair for her, she became Ice Cream Bitch during the movie."  Buffy smirked at her sister, who made a totally ineffective threatening gesture with her cast.  Xander smiled at how easily they were falling back into the same old patterns.  He eased up a little, relaxing against the couch.

"So, what're we watching?"  He accepted the spoon of Cherry Garcia Buffy thrust at him and focused on the television.  A woman in a floaty white dress gracefully coasted down a huge staircase towards a man in extremely tight pants.  A trailing end of her dress blew out behind her in a gauzy, 30-foot trail.  Xander waved the empty spoon at the dancers.  "I sense the influences of a wind machine, 'cause that's not natural."

Buffy snatched her spoon back.  "A Gene Kelly retrospective - but we skipped anything without Cyd Charisse."  

Xander nodded.  "As you do."

Dawn slid further down on the couch, her ankle propped up next to Buffy's elbow.  She'd taken the aircast off, Xander saw.  While the entire area was still mottled with yellowish-green bruising, it had returned to its normal proportions.  

Buffy was watching Dawn too, and noticed her sister's ice cream tip over in her lap.  "Hey!  Don't spill on the blanket!"

"Why not?  A little ice cream might improve it…"  Dawn held her spoonful next to the quilt with an appraising eye.  

"So," Xander interrupted.  "How was work?"  

Buffy's brash manner changed completely as she ducked her head, a small smile on her lips that she half-heartedly bit back.  "Um – good, good."  The smile broke into a full-on grin.  "Actually, I got the week off!"

"But how?  Oh, ah - what did Neil say about that?"  He'd heard far too much about Neil to trust any sort of favors from the man.

"Didn't matter – Ruth took him on!  It was like a prizefight.  Well," she amended, "except that Neil didn't' really fight at all, Ruth just destroyed him."  She brightened.  "And the guys at work are taking all of my shifts!  So I'm clear to spend all the time I can with my favorite person in the world," she crooned.  Then she turned to Dawn.  "Oh, and you, too."

"Knew it was coming, already had the pillow ready," responded Dawn as she launched a cushion at her sister.  Buffy caught the pillow easily, and Dawn took the opportunity to simper at Xander.

"The people at work like her!  They really, really like her!"  She clasped her hands in front of her, eyelashes batting manically.  

Buffy mock-glared at her, but her face was flushed and happy.  "May I point out that you didn't even exist for that acceptance speech?"

"Did too.  Was glowy and energy-bally, but I existed.  And the sincerity of that speech cut through all dimensions.  Demons in hell wept."

Buffy was different, Xander realized.  As the sisters sparred good-naturedly, he couldn't help but notice the change in his friend.  Far from the tired, wan girl he'd lived with for the past months, she was bursting with energy and light.  And all because of a kind gesture by her coworkers, because she had her sister with her again, that's all it took.  At least, that's what he hoped had triggered the change.  He wouldn't let himself think of the other part of the equation.  A high-pitched wail brought him back to attention.

"No, seriously, you have to go to bed now."  Buffy was trying to extricate herself from the couch, but Dawn wasn't making it easy, trying to trap her sister in the blankets.  

"But Buffeeeeeeeeeeee…" she groaned as Buffy neatly escaped onto the floor.  "It's only nine o'clock!  What's up with that?  It's wicked early!"

Buffy stopped to stare at her.  "What language ARE you speaking right now?  "Wicked"?"

Dawn smirked.  "All the cool kids are saying it."

"You're bizarre.  And you're also going upstairs to bed, either under your own power or under mine."  She lifted an eyebrow significantly; choice A would be far less humiliating than choice B.  Xander averted his eyes, choosing to become much more interested in the carpet than the battle of wills.

Dawn considered starting an argument for a moment, mentally weighing the pros and cons.  But to her surprise, she found she was actually quite tired.  Maybe the drama from the morning, maybe it was the road trip, maybe it was the idea of climbing into the clean sheets of her room while she still smelled of shower gel.  "Whatever," she concluded, shrugging and hoisting herself out of the cushions.  Buffy gave her a grateful smile and began to pick up some of the trash littering the room.

Halfway to the stairs, Dawn stopped.  "Are you going out on patrol tonight?" she blurted.  Only at the end of the sentence did she take in Buffy's expression.  Oh, god, not in front of Xander, they'd as good as talked about this… She cringed inwardly but tried to brazen it through, apologizing to Buffy with her eyes.

"Yeah – thought I'd do a quick round," Buffy answered, her voice carefully bland.  "Why?"

"Well, if I have to go to bed all early and crap, I might as well get pancakes out of the deal tomorrow morning."  

"Last time I tried pancakes, I nearly burned the house down," admitted Buffy.  "But I can do waffles!"  She turned to Xander in appeal.

"Yeah, she can do those – there's this nifty red button on the machine that goes on when they're done.  Buffy-proof – hence, breakfast sometimes escapes unscathed, unlike every other meal."  Xander grinned at her, and Buffy let out a breath.  He was acting normal.  Everything would be fine.  

Dawn thumped up the stairs behind her, an uneven gait that reminded Buffy of Quasimodo.  Heh.  Would have to use that nickname tomorrow, she decided as she left the trash in the kitchen.  He was still standing in the hall when she returned; she avoided Xander's eye and went to the closet, pulling out a long canvas jacket.

"So – you're home late," she commented, pulling the jacket on.  Unconsciously, her hands flew in and out of pockets, checking on the various weapons.  "What happened?"

Xander slouched against the wall of the foyer, staring at his feet.  "Oh, the architect's gone and convinced the homeowner that a swimming pool would be a great idea.  Unfortunately, the only place to put it is over the garage, and what we've got up so far?"  He shook his head.  "Not going to do that too well.  I spent most of the night explaining how the structure would slowly collapse over the next five years, and one day he'd find his precious Jag full of chlorine, but he didn't like that so much.  The architect doesn't help, he's a total brownnoser – he just keeps insisting that there must be SOME way to do it on the current budget.  And I keep telling Mr. Gregson that it's not going to happen without more funds, but there's no WAY he's going to pour more money into this house, so now he'd just mad at me because I say it won't work."  He sighed, rubbing at his eyes.  "I might just build it, then let it fall.  Serves him right, less grief for me."

"Rich people and their money, hunh?"  Buffy walked over and leaned against Xander's chest, one arm wrapped around him.  He dropped his arms around her shoulders, resting his chin on the top of her head, a familiar and comforting pose for them both.

"Yeah, well, I wouldn't know about rich people.  Or money.  But I do know about construction, and if they'd just listen to me…"  
  


Buffy nodded sympathetically, the motion causing his shirt to crinkle under her cheek.  "Everything would be all right.  But they never listen to you."

"They're not the only ones."  

Buffy stiffened at his tone, aware that his hand had stopped rubbing her back and rested flatly against her shoulderblade.  He hadn't forgotten, and he wasn't going to let it go.  She pulled away, looking up at him resignedly.

"You're not going to see him, are you."  It was a hopeful statement, almost a question.  She studied his face.  He was calm, still, seemed almost relaxed - but beneath the surface his emotions were broiling, a sort of tension palpable in the room.  

"I'm just going out on patrol, Xander."  She belted her coat, pulling her hair out of the collar.  Xander waited.  She sighed, exasperated.

"I don't even know where he is," Buffy said, her hands spread wide.  "I'm going on patrol, I'm going to get some waffle-stuff, and then I'm going to Clem's before coming STRAIGHT home."  She paused, then decided the whole truth was better than half.  Reluctantly, she dragged out the rest of the sentence.  "And yes, I will be asking Clem to tell Spike to call me."  

Xander let out an explosive, disgusted breath and paced away from her into the living room.  She followed quickly.

"Xander, I just need to talk to him," she tried to explain, but Xander was furious.  She stood back as he began to gesture wildly, his voice bouncing off the walls.

"WHY?  Why could you possibly need to see him?  You saw plenty of him last time, and then he went off to… wherever the hell he's been!  And you know what?  I don't CARE where he's been!  I wish he had stayed there!"  He laughed bitterly, raking his hand through his hair.

Buffy steadied her tone, speaking quietly.  "Yeah, and that's one of the things I need to know.  Like, how did he find Dawn?  Was he looking for her?  And I also want to know about a lot of the hospital stuff, because Dawn can't tell me, she was too drugged up."

"Besides," she added quietly.  "We need to talk about some other stuff, too."  

Xander spun to face her, blazing.

"But what if he hurts you?"

"Xander, he won't."

"Hello?!  Am I the only one who remembers why he left in the first place?  What he did to you last time?"

He'd gone too far. 

Buffy silently waited for him to turn to face her before replying, deadly calm.  "Actually, Xander, I may have a vague recollection of that."  She watched him with narrowed eyes, no longer worried about soothing him.  It only took one look for him to realize that she was seconds from snapping; he couldn't push it anymore without her walking out on him altogether.

All at once, the fire went out of him.  He collapsed onto the couch heavily.  "I hate him, Buff.  I hate him more than I can explain."

"I know."

"But not for me, Buff."  He looked at her plaintively.  "I think he's dangerous – he's BEEN dangerous.  I - I don't want you to get hurt again.  I don't want him to be able to hurt you, any of you."  He buried his head in his hands.  "I just want to keep everyone happy.  Safe.  Normal…"  He trailed off dejectedly.

"Yeah, I know you do," Buffy replied.  She made no move to assure him, but crouched down in front of him.  She caught his gaze and held it.  "But you can't.  It's my battle, Xand, and I have to deal with it my way."

He chuckled hopelessly.  "Yeah, probably should have learned that by now, but I keep on trying.  Dammit."  He closed his eyes, his teeth clenching.  He could feel Buffy starting to stand, and reached out for her instinctively.

She paused, allowing her hand to be caught in his.  He seemed to have trouble choosing his words.

"Xander, it's okay, don't…"

He looked up at her and squeezed her hand.  "Okay.  I won't."  He tried to smile, but it came out as a grimace.  "Please, just be careful."

She tried to pull away but he held her fast, pulling her closer.  Confused, she let him until their faces were only a few inches apart.

"I mean it, Buff," he breathed.  His expression was serious, his stare imploring her to hear him, to listen.  He didn't want to say it out loud, but he couldn't afford to have her forget.  

"You aren't as strong as you used to be."

Her lips pressed together thinly, but she nodded.   

"I'll try not to be late."  

And then she was gone.

TBC


	16. Past Perfect

*

"This sucks.  Sucks sucks SUCKS," Buffy grumbled, pouting at her fingernails as she sat back on her heels.  Her hands were caked with grime and dirt, and the one perfect nail she'd been cherishing for weeks was now hanging by a thread.  She whimpered.  "I have no luck.  Luck has abandoned me, and I am now completely jinxed.  Stupid vampires."

She ripped the nail off, wincing, but gamely drove her hands back into the churned soil in front of her.  It was a rookie mistake, she knew, but her mind had been on other things.  So when the newly-turned vamp had started digging his way out of his coffin, she'd mistimed her reaction; of course, staking too soon resulted in a bizarre phenomenon.  Only known to the lucky few, she bitterly noted to herself.  The vamp dusted, the stake fell into the ground, and then all of the displaced earth?  Right on top.  And that was why she was currently stuck on her hands and knees in the cemetery, trying to extract one tiny piece of wood from the grave's ruins.  She sighed again as she started to get beyond elbow-level, straightening up to strip off her overcoat.  

The night was much cooler than most, making her skin rise up in gooseflesh as it came in contact with the slight breeze rustling through the graveyard.  This was one of the more minor Sunnydale graveyards, by comparison, but also one of Buffy's personal favorites.  She'd had some of her best patrols with Angel through here, memories that were oddly sweetened by the fact that she hadn't seen him in years.  It was nice to go back to that place in her mind, when she had felt so safe.  Protected loved by Angel at any cost.  Her mother waiting at home with an old movie.  Her friends at the library, excited by the newest monster or out at the Bronze.  Giles.  Giles anytime.  She felt her throat closing up and took a deep breath, blinking, pushing the emotions away.

The difficult memories came a lot, lately.  She'd been in such shock after the entire Glory-fallout, and then suddenly having to cope with – well, everything, it seemed – the whole weight of life was only now impressing itself on her.  She hadn't noticed at first, it was so gradual.  Slowly feeling more tired, more worn-down.  Everything reminded her of something unfinished – or finished too soon.  

For instance – Joyce.  Windlawn Cemetery had become quite a hangout for a while, once the vamps figured out that Buffy hated mixing business with family.  She hadn't meant to create such a blatant loophole; it had just happened.  Something seemed so wrong about staking and slaying right next to her mother's tombstone.  Like throwing it in her face, somehow – "Look, Mom, I'm not a normal girl at all!  I've gotten even weirder!  Sorry about the slime!"  

But those kind of emotional allowances were the ones that got you killed.  It had been a mistake, and she had fixed it in one violent raid, Xander in tow.  Of course, she'd also spent the entire following day at her mother's grave, talking quietly, hoping that her mother couldn't tell the difference between her words and her emotions.  She'd put on a brave face, but inside?  Inside she was dying.  And she didn't know what to do about it.

She shook her head, returning to easier thoughts.  No, this could be a good graveyard.  Small and contained, and bathed in moonlight it looked mystical.  Something out of Shakespeare, or as close to Shakespeare as Buffy had ever come.  It was one of the old ones, with family plots dating back into the 1700s.  She didn't get the chance to come here much, but she made the most of these nights.  

It was lovely, really.  She'd come here about once a month, on a beautiful night, dressed in something that made her feel pretty.  And then she'd kill something.  All in all, a nice night out.

But tonight was obviously not one of those nights.  "Needle in a haystack," she muttered, lying flat on the grass, her entire arm plunged into the ground.  Stupid stake.  Anywhere else, she'd just leave the damn thing.  It was procedure and everything!  Stake falls in an unreachable place (or somewhere that would ruin her outfit), she just let it go.  Kids whittle sticks all the time, right?  But there's an entirely different twist to finding a disturbed grave, shattered coffin and a splinter of carved wood.  Even the Sunnydale police might figure that one out.

Suddenly, her fingers brushed against something solid.  "Finally!" she breathed, dislodging the stake with a sharp tug.  Her arm came out of the ground streaked with mud, all the way up to her shoulder; she looked down at her t-shirt warily.  Yup, big ol' clumps of dirt, allll over.  Crap.  She shook off as much soil as she could before pulling the coat back on.  She could still feel tiny bits of sand grating against her skin.

"Well, isn't this just perfect," she said to herself.  Covered in dirt, out on one of the coldest spring nights she could remember, when she could be home watching TV with Dawn.  Curled up, teasing each other, Xander not being worried, maybe they'd crank-call Dawn's boyfriend or something… 

"All of which would be REALLY NICE right now!"  Silence.  As usual, no one else was around to answer her.  She kicked one last clod of earth back on top of the grave before walking towards the cemetery gates, a slow, loose-jointed walk that was more of a mosey than anything else.  It gave her time to think before she got to Clem's.  

And she'd need the time.  She buried her face in her hands, groaning.  She must be insane, that's the only explanation.  She was so aware that her mother would've hated what Buffy had become after her death.  The way she'd treated him, humiliated him, outright used him.  And then, when it had all come apart, when Spike had finally snapped… Her stomach clenched, guiltily.  Willow would call it Stockholm Syndrome or something, she was sure.  Then again, Buffy thought uncharitably, Willow mind-wiped her girlfriend and was forgiven - so wasn't that a double-standard?

It didn't matter, she realized.  No one else matters.  She wanted to see Spike – talk to him, remember him.  Remind herself of him.  It was confusing – her memories of Spike had gotten all mixed up with everyone else's opinions and biases.  She needed to figure him out again, because she thought she'd had him down… 

"Babbling."  She shook her head.  "When did it all get so mixed up?"  Her voice sounded weak in her ears, and she straightened.  No good to broadcast her weaknesses to the ENTIRE world, she guessed.  She picked up her pace, marching out of the cemetery gates and starting off in the direction of Clem's crypt.  The longer she put it off, the more messy it would get in her head.  So she put it all aside, straightened her shoulders and began the cross-town trek to see Clem, murmuring as she went.

"Clem, is Spi..."  No.  "If you see…"  No.  "Hey, bud!  Guess who's back in…" Oh, god…

Xander stayed on the couch for a good half-hour after Buffy left, barely watching the television flicker, his mind moving in frantic circles.  Each scenario he imagined was more gruesome, each one more devastating.  And in every one, all he could do was stand back and watch.  Helpless.  Absolutely powerless until it was time to pick up the pieces – if there were any pieces left at all.  A far cry from the daydreams he used to have; the ones where he was the hero, able to swoop in, save the day.  No.  Now all he could do was wait, and watch.  And feel helpless.  

Of course, there were also other things to deal with… he walked to the doorjamb and spoke quietly.

"Dawn, you can come down now."

A nearby sigh confirmed his suspicions, and he walked to the foot of the stairs to watch Dawn uncurl herself from her post at the top of the stairs.  She began to haul Fugly down with her, thought better of it and tossed the quilt into the hall behind her.  She was walking without difficulty, he saw, just favoring her ankle a bit.  He waited until she got to the bottom before gesturing her into the living room, where she immediately curled into a ball at the far end of the couch.  His heart twisted a little when he saw how much younger she seemed, just in these few motions.  He sat on the other end of the couch, his body turned towards her, waiting for her to speak first.

"How did you know I was still there?" She shifted a little to ask, peering at him through a curtain of hair.

He smiled.  "Ah, easy.  I didn't hear you fall up the last few steps.  You know, your usual pattern?  Step, step, step, THUNK!"  He mimed as he spoke, and Dawn allowed a small smile through the hair that fell across her face.  Xander grinned back.

"Well, ankle, hello."  But there was something else on her mind, thought Xander.  Sure enough, she began to fidget with the piping on the couch cushion, a very familiar Dawn-trait.  It meant that she was trying to phrase something correctly in her head, and Xander knew enough to wait her out.

"That whole thing was about Spike, right?"

Xander flipped through a magazine on the coffee table.  "Yeah, part of it."

"Oh."  

Xander glanced over at her.  "I'm sorry that you had to hear that, though."

Dawn tossed the pillow back on the couch.  "I'm not six, Xander, and you're not actually my parents.  I can take the arguing, but I'm telling you – lay off the Spike thing."

Xander winced.  "Dawn, I know you like him, but.."

She cut him off.  

"Xander, I should be pretty pissed off at you right now," Dawn said, her expression frank.  "You were a total jerk this morning, and SO rude to Spike, and I pretty much thought you sucked until Buffy came home."

Xander slumped further into the couch.  "What changed your mind?" he asked dully.

Dawn shrugged.  "Buffy said that I should lay off.  Trust me, I was in full rant when I first saw her, and she had to talk me down from quite the high horse.  But she did, and so I'm not mad."  She leaned forward, angling so that he had to look at her.  "Xander, she said that the Spike thing was between you and her."

Xander's heart lifted.  Oh, thank god, at least she admitted that there was an issue to be faced!  But Dawn wasn't through.

"Then again, Spike and Buffy have a thing of their own going on."  She raised her eyebrows at him.  "And THAT has nothing to do with US."

Xander looked away.  He tossed the magazine onto the table, and it thumped – a little louder than he'd meant, actually.  He thought of explaining that to Dawn, but really wasn't in the mood.  If she wanted to think he was in a huff, fine.  This day had been too long already.

"So you and Buffy had a good time this afternoon?" he changed subjects wearily, earning a suspicious look from Dawn.  "Get to talk, trash the house, all those good things?"

"Well, we talked about you and Spike."  She glared to remind him that she wasn't through with that particular discussion.  Then her forehead creased.  "And I was kind of worried about her being mad at me," she admitted.  "I mean, the Spike thing, the plane thing, the hospital thing – any one of the above would usually earn a lecture, but I think I overloaded her so much that she'd just grateful I'm not dead.  Or something."

"Or something," Xander agreed.  He paused.  "So how was she with all that... stuff?"

"You mean the fact that I brought Spike home?"  Xander nodded slightly, staring at the table.  "She's – confused, I think."

"Yeah, that sounds about right."

Dawn rolled her eyes.  "No, it's more than that."  She struggled to explain.  "She didn't get to really think about what happened with Spike - it happened, and then he was gone.  For two YEARS.  No contact, no nothing."  She pulled her knees up to her chest, her hip popping audibly.  Xander looked at her and winced.

"My psych teacher would call it 'lack of closure', but I think it goes farther than that… Buffy's not exactly normal, Xander."

He groaned.  "So everyone keeps on saying, but why give up the dream?  I'm all for a pursuit of picket-fenced happiness, and Spike?  Not part of the sunny equation."

Dawn scowled at him.  "Like she's had the choice, you idiot!  Have you even MET the other boyfriends she's had?"

"Hey!  I liked Riley!  Angel, not so much, but at least he didn't try to force himself on her…"

She interrupted him brusquely.  "Oh, what, we're going with SUCCESS RATE, now?  'Cause he left on his own, Xander, unlike others I could mention who had to get clocked with a desk and locked in a cage.  In fact, he comes in a distant second in the persistence stakes."

Xander spun to face her.  "What?  Who told you about that?"

Dawn snorted.  "Buffy, duh.  And if I could remind you of some finer past-relationship traits," she added, ticking the points off on her fingers, "We've got a psychotic murderer who tortured, raped and killed, not to MENTION told her she was a bad lay at the age of 17; some asshole who pursued her, used her, then dropped her; Riley the wonderboy, who cheated on her, with VAMPIRES no less; and then we've got Spike."  She paused, stumped.

"Who tried to rape her," Xander supplied.

Dawn winced, plowing ahead nonetheless.  "But see, Buffy wouldn't say that.  She won't deny it, because all of you are gung-ho about this Spike Is Evil kick, but to me?  She doesn't say rape.  There's something else going on there, I don't know what, but she thinks that it's not all his fault."

"Oh, and that's real healthy."

"I don't CARE what you think, Xander!"  Dawn exploded, jumping off the couch to tower over him.  "And neither should she!  Because while you're being all PC and feminista and whatever the hell you think you're doing, she's got something else going on inside of her.  Something you're not listening to, something you're making her bury and it's eating at her.  She's not well – have you noticed that?"

The sudden change in tone startled him.  "Yeah, she's been a little down lately…"

"More than down."  She paced.  "Do you think the forced-perkiness didn't come through on the phone?  I know her better than that."  Her breath was catching in her throat, and her eyes glinted as she spun to look at him again.

"I don't know what's wrong with her, Xander.  I should know, and I should be able to fix it, because I'm her sister and that's how it works.  But … I DON'T."  The last word came out in a sob.  Dawn folded her arms around herself, angrily fighting for control.

"Dawnie…"  Xander stood to go to her, and she stepped back quickly.

"No, don't hug me yet."  He let his arms fall to his sides.

"I can talk to her.  I can listen to her.  I can threaten Spike, and I have," she insisted, "And I can do the same thing to you."  The tears dried up before they could fall, and the sheer determination blazed on her face.  

"She wants to see Spike, and that might help her.  So she gets to see Spike."  She spoke evenly, having gotten back in control.  "She doesn't want you involved in it – so you won't be.  And I swear, Xander, I will bodily throw myself in between her and anything that's hurting her.  Because… something's hurting her.  And I don't know what it is, so I'll just protect her from anything I can."

Xander watched as the tension left her, the stiff lines and angles softening, the relief on her face as she finally said what she needed to.  He half-smiled at her sadly.

"I guess we feel pretty much the same on that count – I've just been doing it wrong, hunh?"  Dawn looked at him, confused.  Mentally, she reviewed her words… and yeah, she could see how he was in the same boat.  He was trying to protect Buffy too.  She bit her lip hesitantly.

Xander saw the indecision and reached one arm out to her.  "I know I go overboard sometimes, and she opens up to you more than me… so, want to try it together?"  He shrugged self-consciously.  "You rein me in, I'll back you up if she starts pulling big-sister rank?"

Dawn nodded, sniffing, and smiled.  She crossed the few steps between them and curled into his chest; he couldn't help but notice that she was quickly gaining on him in height.  He pressed his cheek against her hair and chuckled into her ear.

"Y'know, you're the only woman in my life who can actually put her head on my shoulder?"  Dawn laughed against him weakly.  She sniffed again, harder.

"Yeah, we're surrounded by midgets," she replied.  One of her hands came up to rub at her cheek.  "I've cried too much this week – my eyes are all stingy."

"Gotta put a stop to that, then."

"Yeah."

They stood there for a few more moments before Dawn pulled away.  She swayed a little on her feet, and Xander grabbed her before she could topple.  They both laughed awkwardly.

"Dude – I'm just not cut out for these emotional things," groaned Dawn, limping back to the couch.

"Ah, shame," Xander intoned sadly.  "I was planning on watching the Indian channel for a bit, get some high Bollywood drama in, but if you're too fragile…"

Dawn grinned.  "Oh, whatever!  It's exactly what the doctor ordered."  She reconsidered.  "Well, that and mac and cheese."

"I'm cooking you dinner now?  Outrageous hussy!"

"Opportunistic hussy," Dawn corrected.  She curled up on the couch again as Xander grabbed the remote and flicked through the channels.  He had work in the morning – early, she remembered, but he was planning to stay up and watch Indian movies with her for the next few hours?  She suspected they both had the same idea in mind, and she ventured to say it out loud.

"So... we're staying up until she gets home, right?"

"You betcha, missy." Xander answered over his shoulder, not even pausing before he made his way to the kitchen.

Dawn settled back into the cushions happily.  The crying jag had sucked, and she really hoped that it wouldn't become a recurring theme, but at least she and Xander had straightened some things out.  And now, instead of Buffy fighting Xander, or hiding stuff from him, she could relax.  Which could be nothing but good, in Dawn's opinion.  Buffy could go out and save the world.  Dawn would just stay here, behind the scenes, and quietly save Buffy.  

After all, she mused.  A sister's got to be good for something.

"Layla!  Layla…?"  Buffy called, peering around the door of the crypt.  She tiptoed in hesitantly.  "Or Clem?  I'll take a Clem, if he's around…"

"Buffy!"  She jumped in shock as Clem suddenly materialized behind her.  His face fell into a guilty expression as she gasped, trying to regain her breath.

"God, Clem!  Not to criticize, it's your place and everything, but the sneaking up on people?  Not good!"

Clem shut the door behind her, holding three squirming kittens in his arms.  "Sorry!  These little guys just keep trying to make a break for it, and I always find them pawing around the door, so I'm always behind it…"  He grinned.  "You should've seen Layla's reaction one day!  Cheetos EVERYWHERE!"

"Bet the cats loved that," Buffy smiled.  She wasn't a frequent visitor, but came often enough that the cats recognized her scent.  She quickly recognized some of her personal favorites winding around her feet and cautiously made her way over to a bench, stepping delicately so as not to crush any tails.  "Is Layla around?  I was at the market, I got her some maraschino cherries…"

"Oh, no, she's in Tuscon this week," Clem said apologetically.  "That's so nice, though – I'm sure she'd've appreciated the thought."  He gave up his kitten struggle and set them down on the floor, where they instantly vanished into a feline sea.  He sighed.

"No biggie, Clem, it's not like they go off – ooh, and I got you Pringles, too."  She reached into the plastic bag and drew out the chips and cherries, handing them to the excited demon.

"How did you know?  I JUST ran out of these… ooh, Texas Barbeque, a fine vintage."  He gleefully pottered over to the cabinet in the corner.  Buffy reached down to pick up her favorite cat, a jet-black manx, and thrilled in the deep thrumming purr he let out at her touch.  

"Hi, Rune!  Yeah, I missed you, too."  She allowed him to settle in her lap as Clem waded towards her again, delighted that the cat had remembered her.  Clem eyed her shopping bag warily as the cats began to swarm, intrigued.

"Ah, Buffy?  Is there anything important in there?"  

Buffy glanced down at the bag.  It was being batted by one of the sassier tabbies.  "Nah, don't worry, it's only waffle mix.  Not something they'd want."  She scrunched her face up at Rune, scratching his forehead.  "And even if you did, the cardboard packaging would defeat you, isn't that right?"  She sighed in sympathy, cradling the cat.  "Oh, but for opposable thumbs, you could take over the world.  Evilly, I'm sure.  And I don't think I'd have the heart to slay ya."  Rune looked at her appraisingly.

"I'm not so sure about the cardboard thing, Buffy – they're pretty crafty."  Clem watched another cat prodding at the plastic shopping bag for a moment before taking it and hanging it up on a hook.  "You should see some of the plans they come up with."

Buffy snorted, setting Rune on the ground.  "Oh, go ahead and call them 'plots' – it sounds more evil-mastermindy."  She looked around the crypt brightly.  "So – how have you two been doing?"

Clem beamed.  "Great, great!  Layla just got a promotion at the travel agency, we fixed up the basement, so it's going real well."  He paused, looking vaguely uncomfortable, before stumbling on.  "And you guys?  Doing good?"

Buffy hesitated a little, worried about the pause.  Clem wasn't the best liar – her mind made a completely unwarranted leap, and she wondered if he had another woman around.  But she quickly shrugged the thought off.  Stupid – Layla was the best thing that had ever happened to him, and Clem knew it.  She smiled.  

"Yeah, everything's cool.  Xander's doing work for some pretty important people, and I just got a week off from the bank – Dawn's home for a bit, too, which is really nice."  She smiled involuntarily, and Clem grinned back at her.

"Aww – she's such a sweet girl, tell her to come around any time.  Haven't seen enough of her lately."  He caught himself.  "You, either, though – I mean, haven't seen enough of either of you, but you probably haven't seen enough of each other, so…"  He stopped, confused.  Buffy laughed.

"We missed you too, Clem.  You should come over one night."  And having gotten the pleasantries out of the way, Buffy realized that she'd better get to the point before they settled into an awkward silence.

"Okay.  Clem."  She took a breath.  "Someone else came into town today, with my sister, and I was kind of hoping that you…"

"Oi, Clem!  Is that Layla?"

The voice that echoed up from the basement was unmistakable, and Buffy shot to her feet, causing the cats around her to yowl in alarm.  Just as startled by the feline chorus, she collapsed back onto the seat, looking at Clem in shock.  He waved his hands helplessly, guilt all over his face.

"I'm sorry!  I thought he'd be down there longer, I didn't know this would be a thing…" he whispered.  He perked up hopefully.  "You could take off!  He'll never know - I'll tell him he heard the television, the Spanish channel's got lots of talky women…"

"No, that's dumb!"  hissed Buffy.  Clem looked hurt.  "I mean, it's not dumb, it's a really good idea that I would follow in a second – but if I do it, he'll know and then I'll feel really dumb and it is just WAY too late now, so I'm going to have to … Hey!"

Spike gaped at her from the top of the ladder.  He must have just come from the shower, she guessed – his hair was wet, and though he was wearing his jeans and boots, his chest was still bare.  He seemed to realize this the same moment she did, and made a strangely chaste motion by holding the sweater in his hand against himself.  

"Oh, god, sorry – and Hi."  He was completely flustered, caught between putting on his sweater and climbing the rest of the ladder.  Quickly realizing that a certain order was required, he slipped up the rest of the ladder and in one fluid movement yanked the sweater over his head.  He retreated to the far side of the ladder, briskly running his hands through his hair to shed the extra water.  "Right.  Hi."  He paused awkwardly, his weight on one foot, nodding to himself.

Clem stepped into the breach timidly.  "If you guys want to talk, I can go somewhere else for a while…"

"No, that's not a problem!" Buffy said instantly, almost running over Spike's exclamation of "Not getting run out of your own home, you're not!"  They looked at each other and ducked their heads.

Clem's eyes darted between them.  He winced exaggeratedly.  "Okay.  Well, I'm not really the conflict-resolution kind of guy, that's much more Layla's thing, so I'm going to feed the cats and then…" he fished, "…do something else."

"I didn't mean to interrupt," Spike shrugged.  "Thanks for the shower, Clem.  I'll talk to you later."  He began to make his way to the door.

"Okay, well – come back when you need to," Clem offered, shooting the pair one more hunted look before disappearing into the basement, cats yowling down after him.  Buffy realized that Spike was about to run off, and just as suddenly realized that she actually did want to talk to him.  Quickly, she spit something out.

"I guess he really is going for food – they seem to know it," she said as Spike passed her.  He turned and she gestured to the trapdoor, which was now completely surrounded by very noisy cats.  "I'll go deaf if I stay in here."

Spike nodded hesitantly before holding the crypt door open for her.  Okay, Buffy thought.  We're really going to have the talk now.  Her stomach flipped.  She distracted herself by making sure that none of the kittens, back on door duty, escaped with them.  By the time they'd managed to close the door with all parties on the correct sides, both she and Spike were giggling uncontrollably.

"Jesus – the gray one's trying to come under the door!" chuckled Spike as a tiny paw poked between the door and the ground.  "Persistent little bugger."

"Did you see the white one?  Total princess – all 'I don't know what you're talking about, I'm not trying to escape' and then with the CLAWS when I caught her!  Look!"  Buffy held out her hand; the thin parallel lines were just visible in the moonlight, and Spike bent down to get a closer look at them, vamping to improve his eyesight.  

All at once, Buffy's Slayer sense went insane, and she gasped – a strangled, rattled sound that caused Spike to freeze.  But once he saw the muscles and tendons of her arm react he ducked away instantly, keeping his face averted.  Something was very wrong, and for him to have been in that position and not-dusty, it wasn't aimed at him.  It was something wrong with Buffy.  He stopped a few yards away to shake off his gameface, only looking up once his features had returned to their human cast.

Buffy was plastered against the entrance to the crypt, her eyes squeezed shut, fingers grating against the stone behind her.  Her breath was coming in shuddered gasps, racking her tiny body in convulsions that didn't seem natural to Spike's eye.  It took a few moments for her body to relax, the rigor to leave her joints, and when she finally opened her eyes again it was to the sight of a visibly concerned Spike.  Concerned, but keeping his distance.

"Did I do that?" he ventured, in a tone so tremulous that she almost wanted to laugh.  This had been the worst one yet, by far, and she wasn't sure if it had something to do with her emotional connections to Spike or what, but she felt as though she'd run a marathon.  Without slayer strength.  She shook her head.

"No.  Well, yes, but not really.  I think it's a one-time thing," she said, wincing as the tips of her fingers began to burn, worn red against the door.

"God, Buffy – I could go back in," he suggested, then thought again when he saw three little paws under the door.  "Or I could go to the park, or…"  He stopped desperately.  "I'll go wherever you tell me to go.  I have a van, I could go there, it wouldn't be a problem, it's sunproofed."  He trailed off.  The merits of the van weren't so important, really, and all he wanted to do was leave her be.

"No," she breathed.  Her eyes were too bright, and she seemed embarrassed by her weakness.  "No, you can go wherever you want.  I'm fine with that.  But I have to go now."  She pushed herself away from the crypt and began to walk off into the night.   But her stride was tight and sore, her shoulders stiffly fixed in an odd manner.

Hell, thought Spike.  She'll get killed in a second, moving like that.  He jogged towards her, stopping about ten feet away.  "Buffy?"

She turned to look at him – no reaction like last time, at least, but he didn't think she had the energy to do that again.  As it was, she barely looked able to stand.  "Yeah?"  

"If you want, I could walk that way."  He made a vague motion in the direction of Revello, and Buffy nodded, smiling faintly.

"That would be fine, too," she assented, perfectly aware that he was keeping an eye on her, though neither would admit it.  

He settled into an abbreviated lope parallel to her, trying to shorten his stride circumspectly.  She noticed, of course, but he was pretending that everything was normal.  He was looking around animatedly, like a tourist on vacation, and she bit back a smile.  She remembered this Spike.  She knew it was only a facet of the whole, and she'd have to relearn some of the other aspects, too… but this was good, for now.  

TBC


	17. Phased

*

The laugh was soft and thin, almost too weak to cross the distance between them.  But it was there, the first sound passed between them since Buffy had allowed him to walk her home.  Well, to accompany her home – moments after agreeing to his company, she had promptly ignored him.  Hadn't spoken, hadn't looked his way… and Spike wasn't about to push his luck.

He shot a concerned glance over at the slayer, but she was gazing off into the distance – whatever had made her giggle so faintly must have been in her head.  Nothing to do with him.  Nothing he could share.  Right, then.  He tried to focus on something else.

At least her mobility had improved since her seizure; she was now walking normally, though he was painfully aware of every flinch and twinge that flared up.  Her reactions and instincts were still off, he realized.  They were beyond off – she'd always been - well, aware that he was around.  But she hadn't bothered to look at him since they left the crypt.  

For a brief moment, Spike entertained the thought that it could be a sign.  She might still trust him, believe that he would watch her back.  But he couldn't hold that delusion for long – truly, she wouldn't have noticed a truck barreling down on her in this state.

So he shadowed her, never getting closer than ten feet, trying to give her space while keeping an eye out for trouble.  After all, she was doing nothing of the sort.

They'd walked in silence for ten minutes, and Spike was just beginning to get used to the sounds of Sunnydale at 3 AM.  The residential streets were dark and quiet, a hushed time that drifted between the depths of night and the coming dawn.  The stillness was eerie, and Spike tried to remember if it had felt so mystical before.  Had it been special at all?  Or just a time when it was easier to find prey, when every footfall seemed to echo twice as loud as any other time of day?   

Now, walking through the streets of Sunnydale, it seemed important that he remember these things.  Buffy's steps pierced the silence in staccato bursts, the heels of her boots rapping sharply against the tarmac.  Would people in their houses hear the rhythm of slayer steps and dream?  Had the sound lulled them into a sounder sleep, year after year, an entire town subconsciously realizing that the night was safer with the light echoes of Buffy's heels…

"You're not real."

For a moment, Spike was completely disoriented.  Buffy hadn't turned to speak; in fact, she was turned so that he couldn't see her face in full.  But the dazed look on her face, he odd lilt to her words… Concerned, he angled to get a better look at her expression.

"This just doesn't feel real."  She was smiling a little.  That worried Spike even more.

"It is real, though…" he interjected slowly, increasing his pace so he drew abreast of Buffy's slow walk.  He halved the distance between them, putting her almost within arm's reach.  The last thing the Slayer needed was to lose her moorings again.  Especially now, when odd things were happening.

"No, not that." Buffy chuckled lowly to herself, the strange smile lingering.  She stopped in the middle of the street, a wondering look on her face.  She turned to him, and he froze.

"I'm just saying – I'm weak, it's the middle of the night, Dawn's back in Sunnydale and hurt to boot, and YOU'RE here after vanishing for two years…"  She laughed again, and Spike suddenly knew what set him on edge.  The tone of her laughter was half-helpless.  And the other half was bordering on hysteria.

"Buffy, love," he murmured, cautiously edging closer to her.  He flinched when she recoiled from him, her arms flying up in a wild gesture and a tight giggle escaping her throat.

"No!  I'm all right!  I'm all right," she insisted, her wrists resting over her head in an oddly coquettish gesture.  But her eyes were bright and her voice too gay; she herself seemed to know it, and she visibly reined in her behavior.  She scowled briefly.

"I'm fine."  A long breath, a moment to collect herself.  She wasn't as good as she thought – the laughter bubbled up unwanted, a smile that tugged and tore.  She would not panic, no.  But she wasn't going to be able to hold it all in.  

Backing away from Spike onto a lawn, she clumsily tripped over a low wall and sat down with a thump.  The jolt made her bite her tongue hard, the sharp shock distracted her enough to dampen her hysteria.  She breathed, deep and cleansing breaths that drew Spike to her like a moth to flame, though he didn't dare touch.  He stopped at a safe distance and waited.  Waited for his world to pull herself back together.

"It's like a nightmare," she finally said.  She looked up at him as she spoke, calm and clear, the laughter no longer edged with madness.  He relaxed a little.

"Life?"

"No, life was going pretty well," she sighed, grinning.  Her arms wrapped around her torso loosely, her hair tumbled across one shoulder, and Spike found himself smiling back for no reason at all.  She snorted.

"I had Dawn away from the Hellmouth, at a place where she could make friends who wouldn't suddenly go all Narnia on her.  I can pay for the house, Xander's been backing me on patrols, work's…" she paused, pursing her lips.  "Oookay, once I can slay Neil, work'll be great.  But everything was going pretty damn smoothly, as far as Sunnydale life goes.  I'd finally figured out how it works.  And now?  Incredible!" 

She threw her hands up air, laughing in an exasperated manner, and thrust both hands through her hair, hard.  For a moment, the skin on her face stretched, and Spike was reminded of a skull.  It unnerved him.  

Still absorbed in her monologue, Buffy didn't notice him flinch.

She leaned back on her hands, head tilted back to gape at the stars.  Her words echoed oddly as she said them, her unusual posture causing entire sentences to disappear in seas of vowels.  She giggled from time to time, her eyes trained on the skies, her throat long and white in the moonlight, framed by brown hair.  Spike stayed absolutely still and listened.

"It's like every dream I ever had, every nightmare I've gotten in the past two years – all of them are here in one day!  Dawn's got something wrong with her and we don't know why – the exact reason I got her the hell out of this place!"  She suddenly caught her own pun and sniggered weakly.  "Hah – hell out of here.  Damn."  Then it was back to the sky, her heels kicking idly at the gravel by her feet.  

"And a plane crash… That's so mundane, considering.  She got hurt, you were there, you came back with her," she mused.  "It's totally surreal.  Everything I've spent the past two years planning, hiding, saving for – poof.  Gone in one day."

Spike opened his mouth to say something, anything, but she wasn't ready to stop.

"And tonight?  Oh, tonight was just classic.  Not only do you show up when I'm not expecting to see you, but then I have a freak-out while you're standing there!"  She barked another laugh, this one more bitter.  Her head snapped down, her eyes fixing him in place.  "Do you have any idea how much time we've spent keeping this thing from the underworld Sunnydale population?  How much time it took to cover up every. Damn. Episode?  And why?  Because of you!"

Spike's mouth snapped shut as his entire body tensed.  She heard the click of teeth and laughed again.

"I know!  Shocking, isn't it?  We kind of thought you might come back with Dru in tow or something…"  Suddenly, she jerked completely upright, an eager look on her face.  "Is she here?  Is that the plan?  Because we're wide open to you right now, you know.  No Willow, Dawn's not going to be able to outrun you, Xander's gotten better with some of the weapons – but he's kind of a traditional guy at heart, usually goes for stakes and the water…" She leaned towards him conspiratorially, eyes glinting sharply.  "And me?  Well, you could take me out in a second, I'm weak as a kitten right now, couldn't slay to save my life…" she paused briefly, considering.  "So you haven't done it yet – is it 'cause you're going to turn me?  I just want in on the plan before …"

It was too much.  "Bloody hell, Slayer!"  He cut her off, disgusted, furious.  She watched as he paced, wanting to shake sense into her but keeping his distance.  He kept wincing, she noticed.  It seemed to be an unconscious gesture, as though his mind had touched upon something sore and caused him to pull away.  They stared at each other, Buffy emotionless, Spike awaiting the next blow.

"We thought you'd come back sooner."  She was quiet, the steely glint gone.  Just calm.  She shrugged.  "We thought you'd be back to kill me, actually, but we thought you'd be back.  And you weren't.  After that night in my house, you just – left."  She stared at him, unreadable.  "You left, Spike."  

He'd left, after almost breaking her, and hadn't cared to pick up any of the pieces.  The realization that leaving had hurt her almost as much as throwing her to the floor, against the tub… the thick, dull sound of her slamming against the ceramic rattled in his brain, and he flinched.  Buffy caught his eye for just a moment, and then he watched her gaze drop, stray strands of hair tumbling down to cover her face in a way that reminded him of Dawn.  

Like Dawn.  Spike closed his eyes as the realization rushed in on him.  The woman he thought he'd known, the fierce and cruel lover, the warrior, the girl who was loyal to all she loved – there was nothing he could say to fix it.  He had damaged her on a level that had nothing to do with Slayers or Hellmouths, a betrayal far more hurtful than an apocalyptic scheme. 

He couldn't ask for forgiveness.  It wasn't up to him, no matter what poetry and reasoning he managed to produce, no matter what metaphysical miracles he lay before her.  He could only lay himself bare and hope for the best. 

She was perched on the garden wall, head down, fingers gently tracing the patterns of stone beside her.  One leg curled up to her chest, elegant, the moon bathing everything in a silver glow.  Deadly in her beauty.  Outside of himself, she was the only judge he could accept.  Tonight, he would bear any verdict she had to give, without posturing or pretense.  The punishment would be accepted, whatever it might be.  

Voice rumbling low with regret and shame, he spoke, hoping to convey his roiling emotions in the simple words.  

"I'm so sorry, Buffy."    

Buffy's head lifted slowly, almost drowsily.  Every line of her body was heavy with fatigue, but not relaxed.  Just worn.  Spike's heart sank.  He had broken too much, hadn't said the right thing – she was still burdened.

Her face didn't contain the anger he was almost hoping for, none of the punishing fury, the utter disgust, the life.  He'd been prepared for that maelstrom; to weather it or to die in it, whatever she decreed.  But what her face held for him destroyed him more than any tirade ever could.

She smiled.  

A slow, regretful smile that had originated in grief and pain.  A wry twist to it that told him of the times she'd imagined this meeting – and how bittersweet the reality was proving to be.  Hours of wondering, of replaying that moment, of trying to see where it had all gone wrong.  Of burying the tortured feelings so deeply that no one could unearth them.  Not even him. Not even her.  And now, sitting on a wall in the dead of morning with the scent of dew beginning to tinge the air, she presented him with the finished package.  Pain and loss, confusion and fear, buried so deep that not even she could touch it anymore.

She smiled and shrugged, saddened eyes never leaving his face, and simply breathed:  "Oh."

Because it was too late, Spike realized.  All of those precious moments that she had wavered, all of those times she had wanted to scream and rail, to make him break under the weight of his sin, to make him hurt in places he'd thought were long dead – they had passed while he was gone.  One betrayal had hurt her, but the second had lost her forever.  He had left her, and she had mended herself in his absence.  He'd given her no choice.

For once, there was nothing to say.

TBC


	18. Old Time

*

It was a sweet feeling.

A cool rush that swept through her veins.  Clean, and simple.  Carrying away the last of the confusion that clotted her body, made it so hard to breathe some nights.  

Finally, she had done it right.  

The night's tension was gone.  Her body felt heavy, languorous in its release.  Like water bearing down on her, coating her shoulders, her head, her arms, running down her spine in a fluid embrace.  She closed her eyes to trace its course and let the tide cover her completely.  There was something to be said for drowning.

But it's never that easy.  

As she drifted, Buffy could feel unrest below.  An emotion that was muddy and sluggish, buried in layers, but all too aware.  Waiting for a moment when she would dive too deep, leave the surface too far behind.  When it could grab her and drag her with it, make her its own – take her over completely.  Swiftly, she broke away and opened her eyes.

Only to remember him, before her again.

Somehow, she wanted to thank him for standing there so hopelessly, for looking so lost.  A validation that it was beyond saving, this thing between them.  Brittle and broken, wasting away – she imagined it fraying with every second, parting reluctantly. But finally.  No going back.

Spike barely registered the way she slid from the wall, softly and gracefully.  The gravel crunched beneath her boots, a harsh sound that rubbed against his exposed nerves.  Made him wince. 

"C'mon, walk me home," she said, a wan smile on her face.  Without waiting for an answer, she began to lope down the street.

Hunh.  That was unexpected.

Spike scrambled to catch up with her, his head buzzing.  He fell in step warily, watching her out of a corner of his eye. 

"Uh… yeah, right," he muttered, desperately trying to figure out her mood.  Changes like the wind now, he thought distractedly.  One moment she was full of jittery energy, crackling so loudly he could hear it in her heartbeat – and now this.  He looked at her sideways, taking in the confident lift of her head, the quiet look of satisfaction on her face.  It confused him.

By all rights, she should be killing him now.  That's what he'd imagined, at least – a bitter, hate-laced monologue, followed by the usual "dead, evil thing" comment,  and a direct stake to the heart.  He'd prepared himself for it, actually - steeled himself to take the screamed accusations, to give her what she needed, even if that meant ending up as antique dust.  

But for it not to happen at all?  For her to be walking beside him, smiling in that Stepford kind of way…  It just wasn't on.

He tried again.  "Buffy, about what happened…"

"No, Spike.  We're not going to do this.  We're done with it."  There it was.  A slight hint of steel, a flash of discomfort.  He was more than used to being shut down by her, but the flavor of this denial was different.  It tasted… false.  He tilted his head a little, pondering.

Buffy saw the gesture and her heart skipped.  This was one of the things she'd forgotten.  Spike was persistent, especially when it came to prying into things he should leave alone.  

She recognized the funny grindy-motion he was making with his lower jaw, too.  As though he was rolling something between his teeth, flattening it, testing its strength.  It relieved her a little; the most perceptive things Spike said usually came without consideration, devastating proclamations that cut to the heart of her.  There was still time to derail this particular train of thought. 

"So, the hospital said you caused a scene," Buffy drawled, keeping her face relaxed, her gait steady.  

Spike jolted guiltily.  "Well, yeah – didn't hurt anyone, just snatched a piece of paper."  He shrugged.  "Didn't seem to be a problem."  Suddenly, he shot her a wary look.  "Wasn't a problem – right?"

Buffy half-shrugged.  "We remain warrant-free, Josey Wales.  It's just a good thing that you were her guardian and all."  She grimaced.

"Oh, hell." Spike threw up his hands, exasperated.  "Right, that bit of business was NOT me – Dawn had it sorted before I even got there.  Wouldn't do that."  He scowled at the ground petulantly.

Buffy smirked.  At least that was the same – still no better way to distract Spike than activating his powerful self-preservation instinct.  The same old dance.  It would work for her, if she could only remember the rhythm.

She eased up, dropping the accusatory tone.  "Did she look bad when you got there?"

Spike shifted uncomfortably.  "Well, the bruises were all more purple, but that's about it.  Didn't even notice the thing with the stitches," he admitted  

At Buffy's confused look, he traced his finger along his jawline.  "Yeah, right under here.  They'll want taking out at a doctor's sometime, I suppose."

"Jeez.  I didn't see that," Buffy admitted, wincing.  Spike shrugged.

"The matching casts do tend to distract, I wouldn't get all broken up about it," he offered dryly.

But Buffy just shook her head, irritated.  Stitches!  Neither of them had ever needed stitches before… Should've noticed that, she berated herself.  Dawn's been home under 24 hours, and she was already missing things.  Important things, important wounds.  Her stomach sank and she dipped her head a little, focusing on the pavement as she walked.  

Oh, no, not the guilt.  Spike groaned inwardly, trying to think of something to say.  He cast a quick glance over at her as she shuffled, blame plain on her face.  It was an expression he found far too familiar on her.   

"She loves the school, you know," he finally decided on.  Buffy's head lifted, and he could see her focusing on him again.  Spike rambled on, hoping to carry her away from her thoughts.

"It's a great idea, and not just because she's miles from the Hellmouth," he said, and Buffy brightened a little at the praise.  "Didn't quite like some of the pillocks she'd been hanging about with here, and she's not getting much chance to indulge the inner shoplifter in rural New England."

Buffy snorted a little.  "Yeah, well, I wish those were the only reasons she got shipped off," she sighed.  Spike looked at her questioningly, and Buffy shrugged.  "I thought it wouldn't be a problem, once she started training with us.  But it's different…"  She trailed off, thinking.

"I thought it would make everything easier, and it did, for a while."  She frowned.  "But in the end it just made her a target.  And she's got most of my moves, but only around half the strength.  Some of the baddies didn't realize that," she finished.

Spike growled.  "She got hurt."

"Once too often, yeah.  When she didn't know how to fight, they'd just tie her up, drag her around.  But now that she knows… there's no limit to what could happen."  She pressed her lips together. 

"They were rough on her, didn't treat her like a normal girl.  They actually took it out on her like she was a Slayer."  Buffy's breath was coming a little quicker as she remembered the way vamps had targeted Dawn, taunted her, tried to break her as Buffy watched.  "She was great, but it would've gotten to her eventually.  Or they would have."

"Good that you got her out, then.  She looked trim when I first saw her," Spike noted.  "Whatever else happened, she's kept up with her exercise."  

"Kicking," Buffy said, rolling her eyes.  "She's big on the kicking, probably because her legs are longer than mine now."  She tried to look put-out, but she was obviously proud of Dawn's ability; Spike chuckled and Buffy continued, encouraged.

"No, seriously, watch her.  It's her new version of stomping out of the room in a snot – you do something she doesn't like, then next thing you know?  Kicked in the ass."

Spike smirked.  "Fighting dirty?  So she learned something from me after all!"  

It only took a moment for him to realize what he'd said, a brief moment in which Buffy shrank from him, taking an inconspicuous step away.  And even as winced at his own idiocy, another part of his mind seized on Buffy's actions.  She claimed that everything was in the past, but a simple slip could cause her to react so noticeably?  No, something there was not sitting right.  

"She told me that you met her friends," Buffy interjected.  He was doing it again, she worried.  The thinking-thing.  She could feel it, and it made her nervous.  A conversation full of potholes, she thought in exasperation.  Why couldn't it all just go back, before everything got all screwed up?

"The friends are quite good," Spike replied, looking a little surprised at the thought.  "The girl she's rooming with, Alicia?"  Buffy nodded.  "She's a right piece of work, but a good one."

"Yeah, I remember Alicia – a little hyper, maybe, but good," she agreed.  "And the boyfriend?"

Spike scowled.  "Well, Dawn won't hear a word against him, and I didn't meet him long in person.  Nice kid, not sulky or timid, just…" he trailed off.  "A guy."

"Cute?" Buffy pushed.

He rolled his eyes.  "Yeah, Slayer, cute as a button.  Got a touch of the Riley in him, but not too much."  Realizing that he was wandering into dubious territory, he decided to throw caution to the wind.  "Hear from him lately?  Or is he too busy fighting the good fight, blowing up homes and generally eclipsing the sun with his noggin?"

Buffy surprised him by laughing.  "Uh, don't know about the eclipses, but I guess he's all right."  She shrugged.  "Sam would be the one to keep in contact with, I guess, but any emails would've been sent to Willow."  She fell silent again.

Hmm.  "So, you and Will don't talk about that sort of thing anymore?"

"Will and I don't see each other anymore."  She said it with surgical precision, a cool detachment.  For a moment, he was tempted to compare it to her detachment from himself – again, something in his mind told him there was more at work. But this was not the time.  He tucked away the thought.  Best talk to Clem when he got back to the crypt.

"Right," he responded softly.  

They were at the end of Revello by now, only a couple of minutes from Buffy's house.  A house which held Xander, Dawn and Buffy, he reminded himself.  

No Tara – she had been cremated, Clem told him.  Well, that's a right way around the resurrection spell, he supposed.  Smart girl.

No Willow, and Buffy didn't seem inclined to tell him more about that one's fate.  

So basically – just Xander and Dawn.  Buffy's world had changed beyond recognition, that much was clear.  The Scoobies had lost a member, the backup team had died or moved away.  And now it consisted of the Slayer, living in a suburban house with Xander, working at a bank every day to keep the taxmen happy.

He shook his head.  Funny, how the comics never showed Clark Kent's life like this.  

Was it normal, to be nostalgic at the ripe old age of twenty-three?

Not that anything about her life was remotely normal, Buffy conceded.  But this was different; a kind of grief that struck her every night after a patrol.  Like some sort of barrier, a wall of emotion that she had to cross to get back home.  A block away from her house, every night, it happened.  

The lines would blur, age would disappear, and everything got very confused.  

It wasn't like her time at the graveyard, when she could sift through memories and savor them.  No, this was much more insidious type of memory.  It slid in almost unnoticed and sucked her in, until she wasn't sure what reality was anymore.  

But it always started the same way.  And it was happening now.

Her mother always waiting at home – the house had never smelled the same again, after she died.  It might have been perfume, Buffy thought – but she'd never found the right bottle, no matter how she tried.  Maybe it had been fabric softener, or laundry detergent, or even shampoo.  Whatever it was, it was gone, and the absence of it hit Buffy all over again every time she entered the house.  

Sometimes, the urge to call Willow would be almost irresistible.  Something funny on patrol, or something scary, something sad.  But moments later, she'd remember; she didn't want to call Willow.  The Willow she wanted lived years in the past, at the Rosenberg's house.  Different Willow.

And Xander was particularly hard.  Walking in and seeing him so – old was an uncharitable word to use, but it was the first one that came to mind.  Far from the Xander she remembered, this one was harder, more serious.  Sometimes, more bitter.  He still loved her, but differently, in a way she couldn't describe.  And the set of his muscles, the expressions on his face… Today's Xander just couldn't embody the light goofiness she missed.  Too much had happened.  

The sound of Spike shuffling beside her startled her all over again.  It was a mistake to turn and look at him; the different incarnations of him flickered through her mind so sharply that she stumbled.  Evil Spike, threatening her friends.  Chipped Spike, reluctantly helping.  Pathetic Spike, on so many occasions.  Seductive Spike, Cruel Spike, Devoted Spike, Beaten Spike.  Bloodied and beaten by Glory.  And then by her.  Which beating had been the worse?  She shut her eyes tight against the thought.

But this was Different Spike, his body unconsciously moving nearer so that he could catch her if she stumbled again.  She shook her head, trying to get rid of the jumble of personalities, trying desperately to hang on.

"You can't go back," she found herself saying, a note of panic in her voice.  If she couldn't go back, than neither could he.  No one could go back.

"What, pet?"

"I want to, but I can't, so no one can," she murmured.  

Spike hesitated.  "Buffy, I don't know what that means."

He watched as she winced, held a hand to her head.  He edged closer, just in case it was another seizure.  She didn't shy away this time, but she also wasn't giggling.  None of the earlier giddy madness.  

"This seems like a dream because I don't know where you belong anymore," she breathed, her eyes still closed.  

He froze.

"I don't know where anything belongs.  But I don't think I ever will."  She opened her eyes again.  They were standing in front of the house now, a beacon of light in the early morning.  Almost every room blazing.  

"Reminds me of a lighthouse," Spike murmured in the stillness.

"Reminds me of an electricity bill," she responded wryly.  Spike smiled at her apologetically, then turned back to the house.

Buffy sighed quietly.  "I miss my mom.  I'm nothing like her."

The longing in her voice was deep.  She ached for her mother, of course, but every time she failed where her mother would have succeeded, every time she made a stupid mistake or forgot to pay a bill… It felt like she was letting her mom down, all over again.  

Spike turned to her, not ready to let her slip away.  "You're a lot like your mum, love – but she had years of experience under her belt, remember."

It was a good point, but not enough.  Buffy sighed, her eyes fixed on the living room window.  She could see the television flickering bluely, could just pick out Xander and Dawn curled up on the couch.  Waiting for her, as always.  

"I'm going to go in and it's going to be a shock, walking in and not smelling her.  Even if she was out, working, whatever – I'd always know she was there because it smelled like her."  She wrapped her arms around herself tight, rocking a little on her heels.

"I got a good job, we've managed to keep the house, Dawn's safe and happy – but it still doesn't smell like home.  And every time I walk in, I forget for a second that she's gone."  She gazed at the house.  "And that one second?  That's a good dream.  I could have that dream forever."

With that, she took the last few steps up to the door.  Spike watched her go, the house lights picking up the dirt on her coat, the deep smudges of soil that stained her hands and knees.  She looked exhausted, resigned.  Suddenly, a thought came to him.  

"Buffy," he called gently.  "Ask Dawn."

"What?"  She turned to him, one hand on the door.  

"Ask Dawn what home smells like to her.  I'd wager she'll say it's you."

It was very hesitant, gradual, but the smile that crept across her face was genuine.  And it was warm.  She bit her lip a little as she looked at him, as though considering him all over again.  

He looked back at her as steadily as possible, willing her to see his sincerity.  He could imagine the smell of her; new leather and shampoo, makeup and clean sweat.  Not quite the comfort of baking cookies, but something more protective, more fierce.  Something inherently Buffy.

Finally, she nodded, gently smiling.  "I'll see you tomorrow."

"You will, Slayer."

She slipped in through the door quickly, and he walked back to the street, glancing behind him as he went.  Through the window, he saw Buffy pad around the living room, turning off lights, gently waking Xander up.  It was only a few moments before all three figures stumbled up the stairs; a minute or so later, all the lights in the house were off, asleep.  Just like any other house on the residential block.

Spike didn't linger; drawing his coat around him, he began the long trek back to the town center.  The smile on her face buoyed him.  And he would see her tomorrow.

He was unsure of where he stood – but at least he was still standing. 

TBC


	19. The Man in the Mirror

*

The new high school wasn't cool at all, Spike decided.

Some effort had been put into it architecturally, he supposed.  A mix of Ivy League and open-plan campus had resulted in a nifty gothic feel that he could really appreciate, but after breaking into the basement and wandering the halls for an hour or so, he had to say it sucked.

The interior was much more cramped than he remembered, probably bowing to population pressures.  Each classroom was identical, with stark white walls and annoying writing-desks.  Cookie-cutter classrooms that would bore the students to tears.  The few windows usually looked out into other classrooms, and very few of those windows opened more than a few inches.  Looks like a damn institution, he thought to himself as he prowled.  Not to mention it was unbelievably complicated; he got lost three times before making it to his final destination.

The library.  

His memories of it weren't vivid by any means; most of them were taken at a run, or when distracted by something else.  A few blurry impressions of old wood and dark corners, the brief thought that this was what a library should be like, the slightly dazed admission that this was the perfect stomping ground for a Watcher.  Of course, overlying the memory of that night was the deep humiliation of being bested by the Slayer's axe-wielding mother.  But he remembered noting the smell of old books, the wooly scent of dust burning on the old-fashioned lamps.  It had smelled old, mysterious, wise.  Good.

It was pitch-black when he entered.   After a couple of moments groping the walls, he located a switch and was suddenly blasted with light.  Harsh fluorescence that practically blinded him, and worse, illuminated what they'd done to the place.

A circulation desk, smack in the center of the room.  Bookshelves lining the walls in an orderly fashion, split up by couches and cheap tables.  The harsh yellow light bounced off everything, making the light blue carpet glow like neon, causing the light beech of the room's woodwork to seem orange.  Probably someone's idea of "modern", Spike thought.  More like his idea of "hospital waiting room".  Or possibly a megastore in a bookseller's chain, where you could sip a latte as you read.  He was tempted to look around for the cappuccino maker; don't rule anything out in California.

The dimensions had changed, too.  No more interesting architectural quirks, where you could hide and think… or launch an attack, he reminded himself.  Everything was on one level, easily monitored by whoever manned the central desk.  High ceilings, but in a way that just made the place feel empty and soulless.  Giles would roll over in his grave, he thought disgustedly.  Well, he would if he were dead, but that's nitpicking.  

The morons had gone and rebuilt in the same site, right on top of the Hellmouth, he knew.  But looking around at the almost sterile nature of the library, he doubted anything would have the strength to face this new hell on earth.  Something caught his eye, and he wandered over to find a huge display rack, full of teen magazines.  He groaned, spun and left, letting the lights blaze on.  Hopefully one of the lights would explode and burn the whole thing down.

He was glad that Dawn wasn't at that school anymore, he decided as he walked back to Clem's.  Suck the imagination right out of her, probably.  No wonder she'd been so eager to shoplift – after Sunnydale High, prison would seem just like school, and you wouldn't have to do homework.  He chuckled a little at the thought.

He was so concerned with redesigning the high school that he didn't even notice the figures shadowing him as he walked through town.  He had already turned into the alley, obliviously pondering the merits of a two-level library, when he felt someone step in behind him.

Wouldn't be anyone but Buffy, he thought briefly.  But that made no sense – he turned quickly, planning to slide back against the wall, pull Dawn's switchblade from his pocket…

Until he caught sight of his attacker.

Bleach-blonde and grinning, hair slicked back close to his head.  A long black duster over t-shirt and jeans and boots.  Black on black on black on black on a rangy frame, and all of it looking at him expectantly.

But the eyes were brown, the voice unmistakably southern as his doppelganger spoke.

"Welcome home, Spike."

And then something slammed into him from behind, many somethings, wielding heavy objects that slammed into his skull painfully, battered him down through a confusing sea of thought.  Then he couldn't think much of anything anymore.

The smell is what woke him.  

He'd been left on the concrete next to a corpse, face-to-face.  Or what used to be a face; truthfully, if it hadn't been for the dangling earrings, Spike would have been hard-pressed to guess at the sex of the long-dead human.  From what he could see, she hadn't died an easy death.

He tried to shift away from the mess of decomposed flesh, and that's when he discovered the rope.  High-quality, extra-thick twine binding him from shoulders to hip, pinning his arms to his sides, his own elbows jamming uncomfortably into his ribs.  

"You're awake."

Spike reacted to the voice by immediately rolling and swiveling into a sitting position, ignoring the cracking sounds his body made as it contorted.  It was worth it to be able to regard his captor calmly, regain some control in this thoroughly screwed situation.  He eased himself against the wall, letting his body relax in a nonchalant pose.

The vampire across from him twitched at the movements, his hand tightening inexpertly on a stake.  He was little more than a boy, thought Spike.  Blonde and muscular, in a streamlined way that reminded Spike of a swimmer or cross-country runner.  But certainly not the leader in this situation, and also not too sure of Spike.  Spike bared his teeth.

"I'm awake, and now I'm pissed off, too," he purred, all feral insinuation.  "Now, do you want to stake yourself, or shall I come over there and do it for you?"

The boy stiffened in panic.  "No!"  

Spike began to laugh, and the boy recovered, scowling.  He stalked to the basement staircase and hollered up.  "Spike's awake!"

The response was almost immediate.  "We'll be down in a sec- lemme get the boss."

The swimmer/runner returned to his seat, watching Spike warily.  

"Boss?"  Spike put as much distaste as he could into the word.  He was surprised when the boy blanched.

"Spike, seriously – watch out."  The kid was shaking his head, eyes wide.  He was frightened, Spike realized.  And not of him.

"Yeah, sure."  Feet began to pound on the floor above them, and Spike gathered what dignity he could for the coming encounter.  

In better light, the resemblance wasn't as striking.  Where Spike's hair bleached to a platinum-white, his opponent's was wiry, stubbornly clinging to a pigment that tinted his hair with copper tones.  He was heavier, too, some of his bulk hidden under the flowing coat.  And the face.

None of Spike's aquiline features, no sculpted quality.  This boy was handsome in a thoroughly pedestrian way.  A deeply cleft chin, Spike noticed, and a sprinkling of freckles.  And a sleepy look on his face that didn't seem to go away.  Heavy-lidded eyes, a hovering smile, drowsy gaze, slow movements… No, not like Spike at all.

But bound at the boy's feet, Spike wasn't in the mood for introspection.  This was the time to be blunt.

"Right," he said casually.  "You look alarming."

"Yeah, you have bad taste, but what's a vamp to do?"  The boy didn't seem concerned at all by the insult.  Well, at least he admitted to mimicking Spike's clothing.  That would save some time.

"And I've got to say, the peroxide does nothing for you boys with the high complexion," Spike added.  He ran his eyes over the rest of the motley crew, about seven in all, each boy looking fresh out of high school.  One or two of the boys laughed nervously, huffing noises designed to be inoffensive.  They all kept glancing at the leader, their expressions wary.  Out of this group of minions, what made the doppelganger so fearsome, wondered Spike.  He would do well to find out.

"Yeah," shrugged the boy.  He came closer to Spike, crouching gracefully before him.  "But you want to know what the nifty thing is?"

"It brings out your eyes?" Spike asked mockingly. 

The boy just smiled.  "Your little whore won't come near me dressed like this," he said softly. 

Spike snarled, but the boy ignored him and went on.

"She'll take one look at me and walk away, Spike.  Just walks away.  Don't know what you did to her, but it's turned her all pathetic.  She's been falling down on the job, pal."  The words were silky, purred.  The boy was enjoying himself.  "It's a sweet deal, Spike – no Slayer to worry about, and all it took was a little makeover."

Buffy had let him go?  Seen him from a distance and walked away?  Spike shoved the thought away, promising to sort it out later.  Right now, the boy was leaning in too close, drinking in his every expression.  Parasite.

"You're mighty pleased with yourself," Spike spat.  "All for being a bleeding, mimicking prat."

The boy smiled again.  "I think the phrase you're looking for is 'opportunistic prat'.  You'd've done the same in my place; don't even bother denying it."

Spike didn't reply.  Something about this sleepy kid made him feel a little sick, a little nervous.  He shifted, masking his discomfort.  No use in letting the kid know he got to him.

"Uh, Kane – why is he moving?  Are those tight?"  One of the other vamps craned nervously, trying to see what Spike was doing.

Spike heard and laughed.  "CAIN?  Oh, please tell me you had that name BEFORE you were turned – it's just too sad, otherwise."

The boy sneered at him, for once showing emotion beyond his sleepy façade.  "Yeah, like I'd name myself after some washed-up wrestler?  Only pasty boys watch that crap."  He pursed his lips.  "Should've known you'd be a fan."  His pals laughed at the joke.

Oh, of all the bleeding idiots… "I meant Cain as in the Bible, you poof," Spike groaned.  "Wrestler… Try the root of all evil, the fratricide?  Illiterate generation."  This was just embarrassing now, like getting trapped by a vicious gang of preschoolers.

Though they weren't quite sure of the insult, the kids stopped laughing.  Some of them shifted nervously, but Kane held his ground, smiling sarcastically.  "Yeah, Spike.  'Cause the Bible helped you out so much, back in your day.  Let's all follow your example."  

"Was someone else who damned me, friend," Spike growled.  Then he added a wolfish grin.  "I've just done a good job working my way down through the circles of Hell."  He was pleased with himself for just a moment, until he realized none of the boys caught the reference.  He rolled his eyes.  "And that would be Dante.  Now let me the fuck up."

"No can do, but thanks for asking," Kane drawled.  He stood up smoothly, the smile back in place.  He tilted his head, regarding Spike through those sleepy eyes.  Suddenly, Spike realized that Kane was copying the angle of his own head.

He resisted the urge to fidget.  "What," he said flatly, sarcastically.  Kane jolted a little, as though startled out of a reverie, but slid right back into his languid pose.

"Nothing," he sighed.  "Just wish I could keep you around a little longer, study a bit more."  His forehead creased.  "If you managed to become a master vampire, it won't be that hard for me to."

"Bite me," Spike snapped.  Idiot child, playing in things he could never understand.

Kane smiled.  "If I thought it would help, I would."  It was said almost ruefully.  But the younger vamp merely shrugged and headed towards the stairs.  "I'll be back – just need to make a couple of adjustments," he called over his shoulder. 

The rest of the clan filed out, leaving the swimmer behind again.  Spike watched the boy edge around him carefully, crouching by the stairs with the stake clutched tight.  Spike sighed in disgust and closed his eyes.

Trapped by a gang of fledglings.  Master vampire, indeed.

"So did you really kill two Slayers?"

The question came out of nowhere.  He was impressed the boy had guts to speak, actually.  Spike opened his eyes and picked the fledgling out of the darkness.

"Yeah," he answered tiredly.  "One in China, one in New York.  Why?"

The boy edged a little closer.  "Why didn't you kill this one?"

Spike groaned out loud.  This was the last thing he needed.  "Right, if I'm going to tell you, you're going to have to come over here.  No way I'm shouting across the blasted basement."  The boy hesitated.  Spike sighed and wriggled his fingers.  "Look, no hands – I'm totally tied.  Stop being a ninny."

"Sorry."  The kid gingerly stepped over the decomposing woman, probably the former homeowner, Spike realized.  The distaste was evident on the boy's face as he crossed, unable to tear his eyes away from the maggots that writhed on the body.  A squeamish one, eh?  Useful to know.

"Name?"

"Hunh?  Oh, Rick."  He settled down a couple feet away from Spike, leaning against one of the foundation posts.  Spike nodded companionably.  Might be able to turn this one to his advantage.

"Right, then, Rick.  I didn't kill her because she's too good."  Too good at fighting, and that's the way Rick would take it.  But also too good in so many other ways…  "Tried to kill her a couple of times, it didn't take.  Death doesn't take to that girl as a rule, actually."

"Yeah, we kinda noticed that," Rick admitted.  "We don't have to worry about her because of Kane, but we're not going after her, either."  

"Wise," Spike intoned.  He fidgeted, testing his bonds.  "So, what are you lot going to do with me?  Use me as bait?"

He asked hopefully more than anything; it didn't surprise him when Rick shook his head regretfully.

"No, I think he's gonna dust you somehow."

Spike pressed his lips together firmly.  Time for a little force.  "Well then, Rick – you'll be getting a taste of the Slayer sooner than you think."

Rick stared.  "What?  Why?"

"If your pillock of a leader manages to kill me – and that's a big 'if', boy – then the Slayer will come down on you like a ton of bricks.  Probably sweep you all in one night," he breezed.  "The girl and her family like me, what can I say?  And you know how she gets when someone hurts her friends…"

Rick scoffed.  "Yeah, like you're her friend."

Spike just looked at him.  "You must be new or heartbreakingly stupid.  The girl owes me."  Not completely true, but in this situation?  Some liberties could be taken with the truth. 

And now for the final touch…

"Untie me and I'll get us out of here.  It's the only way."

"Are you fucking nuts?"  Rick recoiled with a horrified expression.

"It's the only way you're going to survive this, idiot; I'm a master. I'll get us out, and then you can go.  But you've got to do it now."

But he'd underestimated the thrall with which Kane held his crew.  Rick pulled away, waving his hands helplessly.

"Look, man, I'm sorry – if I let you go, he'll kill me."

"And if you don't let me go, I'LL kill you.  Later, maybe, but I'll still kill you.  Slowly."

Rick looked at him appraisingly for a moment, and Spike wondered if he'd managed to get through.  But no luck – the boy was shaking his head.  

"Dude, I know you're old and experienced and everything, but he's insane."  Rick glanced over to the stairs and shivered.  Whatever Kane was about to do, it had the boy terrified.  There wasn't going to be much time, either.

He tried Rick again.  "So you're just going to let him stake me?  The Slayer'll be after you in hours.  Not a good plan.  Untie me."

"You don't get it."  Rick's voice was flat, and he turned to stare at Spike.  "He's crazy, but in a really scary way.  He'll mark someone, and they won't even know it.  Days, weeks, MONTHS later, he'll kill them in some bizarre way."  He shuddered.  "I think it's what he does in his spare time – just thinks of fancy ways to kill people.  And vamps.  Anything, really."

"You're saying he's a psychopath?"  Big word, not completely sure of the psychological terminology, but it seemed to fit the bill.

"I guess," Rick shrugged.  "I'm saying he likes to kill things.  He also likes to dissect things.  Sometimes, he does it in reverse order."

"Right.  Sounds pleasant."  Shit.

"Yeah, he's not someone you want to cross."  Rick shrugged apologetically.  "I guess you just got in the way?"

"Guess so," Spike agreed.  "Now let me go."

Rick stood up, agitated.  "I told you!  I CAN'T."  But something was beginning to get through to the boy, and he shuffled where he stood.  Suddenly, decisively, he leaned closer.

"Look, if I can do something for you, I will.  But I can't do anything if I'll get dusted.  Okay?"

"Right," Spike said, disgusted.  Rick's face fell as he turned away, signaling the end of the conversation.  The boy retreated back to the foot of the stairs, dejectedly playing with the stake, and Spike ignored him.  

Two years to get this far, he thought, and to get staked by some upstart.  Insane upstart, fine, but still a stupid way to go.  At the hands of someone who'd haunted Buffy, who'd kept him fresh in her mind… No, he wasn't done here. 

He'd expected them to come in the same way they'd filed out, so the sudden flood of bodies rushing down the stairs startled him.  There wasn't much he could do as so many hands grabbed him, yanked him to the center of the basement, thrust him out to Kane like some sacrificial offering.

Which he was, in a way.

"Piss off," he managed to spit before fingers twisted in his hair, pulled his head back so far his neck hurt.  Kane chuckled and said something he couldn't quite make out.  The pressure on his scalp eased, and he found himself facing the smiling youngster.

"I'll remember that, too," Kane said easily.  He gestured to Spike's jacket.  "And this, I'll just be taking.  Don't know when you decided to go all L.L. Bean, but at least I won't have to dye my hair anymore."  He smirked.

"Don't bother, you'll be dead by then."  

"Fighting to the end – appropriate," Kane drawled.  He reached into a pocket and, unexpectedly, pulled out a syringe.

Spike laughed.  "Planning to sedate me, then in with the stake?  Very nice, quite macho.  Prat."

Kane smiled again, sleepily.  Spike was beginning to catch onto this; a drowsy-looking Kane was not a good thing.  

Especially when he slipped the needle into the back of Spike's exposed hand.

At first, the pain from the needle was nothing.  Like a splinter, or getting sliced with glass.  Certainly nothing in comparison to the gradual burning sensation that paralyzed him as Kane pushed the syringe's plunger.

"Fucking hell!" breathed Spike.  It was a small admission, considering his whole arm felt like it was in flames.  Whatever had been in that tiny vial was now bubbling through his blood, boiling, ripping him apart.  It was like a sunburn from the inside out, and only getting worse at every moment.  

Spike didn't feel Kane withdraw the needle, tossing it into a corner.

"Feels bad, doesn't it?" The younger vampire's face twisted into an expression of sympathy as he waved for Spike to be set down.  Spike immediately lay out flat, desperate to stop twitching, hoping that he could stay still.  Delay the poison, whatever it was.

Kane didn't seem concerned with Spike's stoic silence.  He crouched down next to his victim as Spike went into a series of spasms.  

"It's something I've been working on – bunch of stuff that kills vampires, but in certain ratios.  You know: holy water, garlic essence, that sort of thing."  He chuckled.  "If I could get splinters in the syringe, I'd do that too!"  

Spike shut his eyes, barely focusing on the boy's words.  His veins were eating him.  Every one of them screaming, dying, probably crumbling into ash.  He'd never been more aware of each part of his body in his life.  To have them all burning at once was almost unbearable.

"I've only tried this twice before," Kane's voice continued, low and whispered. His expression was dreamy, a smile lingering on his lips.  "The first one wasn't anywhere near as old as you, though, so I don't know how you'll take to it.  I made it stronger for you, just in case.  Right around now, those tiny little particles are creeping through your body, dusting you from the inside out."  His fingers wriggled, as though miming the poison's journey.  "And the last girl?  It ate her.  Ate her until she was just a shell, and I found her days later, just where I'd left her, practically a husk.  I even brought her home, to see if she'd grow back… but she never did.  She wasn't there at all – it was just a shell, like a snake that's shed its skin.  Hollowed out completely."

Kane sighed.  "So that's what I see in your future, master-man.  And it could take you a while – she was way further gone than you are by this point.  But she screamed a lot."  His brow creased, and for a moment he looked like a frustrated child.  "Why don't you scream?"

Spike clenched his teeth tight, refused to look Kane in the face.  He certainly wouldn't let the boy know that his throat had spasmed so tightly that he literally couldn't make a sound, that his jaw had locked. That he was helpless to defend himself, even with words.

"Sorry it has to be this way, Spike.  I really am," Kane continued.  He stood, squinting down at his victim.  "But there can't be two of us – there can only be me."  

He seemed to realize that Spike was beyond words at that point, turning to his cadre.

"Okay, let's get out of here.  He's going to take a while – I upped the dose, but I'm thinking he'll take the rest of the day."  Kane half-smiled, leaned back down to Spike.

"We'll be back tonight, though, when this you're good and hollow.  After all," he murmured, brushing Spike's lapel almost lovingly.  "I need your clothes."  He sighed and straightened, then made his way to the stairs.  

"We should throw him in the corner – you know, in case someone looks in the window," Spike heard one of the minions grumble.

"Yeah, whatever."

He felt himself lifted roughly, then unceremoniously dumped in a cluttered pile of folders and boxes, the dead woman's files.  He heard them leave, heavy boots clumping up the wooden stairs, the door shutting loudly and with certain finality.  

Dying like this was bitter, Spike realized.  Abandoned in a basement with a rotting corpse, wasting away, allowing a group of dumb fledglings to get the upper hand and end one hundred years of greatness.  Briefly, he wondered about his soul; he'd only just acquired it.  Would it rise because of its newness, or sink under the weight of a century of sins?  Would it even find its way out of this godforsaken basement?

He pried his eyes open, though the light stung and every vessel and nerve felt afire.  Might as well get a last look, before his eyeballs crumbled into dust.  

Depressing view.  Spare odds and ends of furniture, bare lightbulbs dangling from the rafters, the dead paperwork of a dead woman pressing in against him from all angles…

…and at his feet, tucked so close to his boot that even he almost didn't see it:  Dawn's little black switchblade.

TBC


	20. Instinct

*

"Oh, god – the pancake mix."

Buffy stared at the kitchen counter in dismay.  She'd woken up early, crept down the stairs with utmost care, set up all her waffle-making tools.  She'd even remembered to open both front and back doors, creating a cross-breeze that would take care of any pesky charring incidents.  

"AND took the batteries out of the smoke alarm…" she moaned, dropping her head onto the counter.  But none of that changed the fact that the box of pancake mix was, at that very moment, hanging high up on the wall of the crypt.  Unless, she thought bitterly, Rune or one of the wilier cats had knocked it down; in that case, the pancake mix was probably an inch deep all over the crypt floor, the cats, Clem...  She groaned again.

"Good morning to you too, sunshine."  Xander announced, strolling in through the wide open door. Buffy jerked upright at the sound of his voice, pouting.

"Nooooo.  This morning is sooo not good," she wailed in reply, waving her hands at her counter of preparations.  The waffle iron blinked insolently in response, and Buffy yanked the plug from the socket.  That'd teach it.

Xander froze and sniffed; it was a conditioned response to evidence of Buffy cooking.  But no scorched smell tainted the air, and Buffy herself was looking remarkably neat and tidy.  No splashes of milk or smears of flour…  "The electricity isn't working?" he hazarded.

"No, I forgot the stupid mix at Clem's, and now the stupid cats are probably covered in our breakfast."  She scowled, and Xander almost laughed at the sight.  Hair in pigtails, wearing an oversized shirt and a pair of men's pajama pants, practically stamping her foot in irritation – sometimes he forgot what a tiny girl she was.  Only at times like this, when she was acting like a toddler, did her size really strike him.  Grinning in spite of himself, he set his tools down just inside the door.  

"Buffy, I'm pretty sure we can scrape together something to eat," he chuckled, rounding the counter.  There wasn't much to clean up; she'd pulled a lot of stuff out of drawer, but none of it was actually dirty.  "There's definitely enough food around for all three of us - it'll just have to be a little less homemade, more storebought."  She trailed after him as he collected the various bowls and measuring spoons, sighing gustily as he tucked them back into the cupboards.  At the tenth pointed exhalation, he turned and pushed her towards a stool.  

"Sit, I'll throw something together."  There was a package of English muffins around here somewhere, he thought.  Somewhere in the back of one of the bottom drawers, maybe…?

"Eugh."

Buffy leaned over the bar, her head poking over the lip of the countertop.  "What?" 

"You don't want to know."  Xander deftly lobbed the truly moldy muffins into the trashcan, wrinkling his nose.  He moved on to the next drawer.  "It may not be fancy, it may not be attractive, but there has to be something in here that'll tide us over till lunch…"

"But…"  At her tone, Xander stopped rummaging and looked over curiously.  "But it's Dawn's first day home," she finished miserably.  Xander paused, watching Buffy fidget on the other side of the counter.  She slouched, twisting a paper towel in her hands.  "Mom would always make pancakes when we had vacations from school, it was a thing."

"Ah," Xander replied.  There wasn't really much he could do when she got like this; his own mother wasn't the paragon of virtue Joyce had been, and he really didn't know what to say.  But he could try.

"Is this why I heard Sarah MacLachlan coming from your room when I got up this morning?"

"What?  It's the music of deep thoughts," Buffy said defensively.

"Yeah – or the music of spiraling depression," he responded, a little exasperated.  He got up from the floor, knees popping loudly.  Dawn's warning was still fresh in his mind, and he wondered for a moment if he should just shut up and let it go.  But he'd caught something the night before, a hint of where she'd been, an indication of whom she'd met on patrol.  And something in him wanted to see if she could be trusted to tell him.  

Or, more importantly – if he could be trusted to hear.

After a moment, he decided to forge ahead.  "Were you deep-thinking about your mom, or about something else?"

Buffy hesitated.  Something about the way he was standing told her that he knew, knew that she'd met with Spike.  And she, for one, was feeling a little rebellious this morning.

"I was thinking about Spike," she said defiantly.  She waited for the blast, but Xander just nodded.  Buffy looked at him warily, but continued.  

"He was at Clem's.  We walked for a while, talked about stuff, and then I came home."  She straightened in her chair.  "We talked about a lot of things, and then he walked me home.  So I was with him for a while last night."

"I know."  Buffy tried to pull condemnation out of that word, some other typical Xander-reaction, but there was nothing.  He stated it flatly, almost tonelessly.  If her back had been to him, it would've sounded casual.  But standing face-to-face, with his dark eyes pinning her down, his expression intense and neutral… She quailed a little.

Xander didn't break his gaze.  "You don't smoke," he said simply.  "And last night, when you woke us up, you kind of smelled smoky."  Again he fell silent.  Looking at her so evenly, so steady, like he had turned to stone.  But he breathed normally, and his muscles remained lax; not stone after all.

Buffy didn't like it.  It wasn't like Xander to bottle things up, to just keep his mouth shut.  Sure, she'd wished for it often enough, but now that he was doing it?  She wanted to push him until he'd yell, make him angry, make him say something stupid and cruel.  It was so much easier to ignore what he thought when he stated it so crudely. 

He looked away abruptly, and Buffy felt herself sway in reaction.  Silently, methodically, he began to rifle through the kitchen again; Buffy turned back to the paper towel in her hands.  Or what remained of it – shreds of paper littered the countertop, and Buffy couldn't remember doing it at all.

The uncertain silence had softened when Dawn meandered into the kitchen, lurching slightly, but otherwise looking remarkably awake for 8 AM on a Tuesday.  Dawn was not a morning person; she tended to work on instinct and stream-of-consciousness before 9 AM.  Without pausing, she walked over to Buffy and wrapped her arms around her, completely oblivious to the vague tension hanging between her sister and Xander.  With Buffy sitting on the high stool, she was the perfect height for Dawn to burrow into her shoulder.  Buffy barely had time to adjust to the embrace before Dawn began to ramble.

"I just got the best-smelling deodorant.  It smells like the deodorant I got when I was 11, and you know how you got the 'Teen Spirit' kind, and it smelled funny, but you thought that was how all deodorant was supposed to smell, and then you got normal-smelling deodorant when you figured it out, and now I just got another deodorant and it totally takes me back."  She squinted down at the stick in her hand.  "I think it was bad then, because I wanted to smell older.  But now I'm old, so I get all nostalgic over deodorant."

And that was all it took.  Buffy began to laugh, delighted, ringing laughter that echoed around the kitchen, chasing off the shadows of grief and doubt that had gathered.  Xander's deeper timbre followed, a chuckling rumble.  A good sound that broke the ice between them.

"God – you are so weird."  Buffy beamed down at Dawn, who helpfully uncapped the deodorant and offered Buffy a sniff.  "Before I put my nose anywhere near that, has it already been in your armpit?"

Dawn rolled her eyes.  "Once.  Twice, at most."

Buffy made a face, but tentatively inhaled.  "Oh, yeah – I remember that."

Dawn hopped around the counter.  "Want to sniff?  It's funny-smelling," announced Dawn, holding out the stick to Xander.

He looked at her askance.  "Like, 'Eww! Try this, it's so gross' funny, or funny ha-ha?"

She smacked him lightly.  "Like 'Oooh, this is all nostalgic' funny."

"Oh."  He leaned forward.  "Ah!  Eau de Sarah Morgan!"

"Who?" 

"Sarah Morgan – my girlfriend in sixth grade."  He waggled his eyebrows.  "We used to sneak off to the bookshelves together.  She'd read Plato, I'd draw in the margins.  And then I went to junior high."  He placed one hand on his heart and sighed melodramatically.

Dawn grinned.  "And what happened to her?"

"She went directly to Harvard."  He capped the stick and handed it back.  "Funny 'oh, weird', I think."

"Eh.  So," Dawn chirped, looking around the kitchen eagerly.  "Breakfast?"  She couldn't miss the guilty look that flew between Buffy and Xander.  "Or not?"

"Ah, we're having technical difficulties with that," admitted Xander.

Buffy clarified.  "As in, technically, we have no food."

"Oh."  Dawn thought for a moment.  "What about the frozen stuff in the fridge, the Eggos?  Or maybe cereal?"

Buffy shook her head.  "Had to chuck the Eggos when they froze to the ice cube trays, and we haven't had cereal since…" She paused.  "Since the last time you made Rice Krispie Treats, actually."  God, they were a healthy family.

Desperate, Dawn appealed to Xander.  "Do you have anything hidden away?  Anything?"

"Not unless you want one of the evil green hairy muffins of death."  He looked at the trashcan dubiously.

"Hairy?  Gew.  No.  And actually, never tell me something like that again, I have an overactive imagination."  

Well, Buffy thought, there was one choice that hadn't been mentioned.  "If you want, I guess we could go to the Pancake House…"  Not exactly haute cuisine, but hey.  At least it was sticking with the pancake tradition.  "It's not that bad at breakfast."

Dawn smiled brilliantly.  "No, Buffy!  It's great, I love the Pancake House!"  Buffy shot her sister a look, but it was too early in the morning for Dawn to be using guile.  In fact, Dawn bounced a little on her chair, beaming at Buffy.  

"Can I have the chocolate chip ones?" she asked excitedly.  "Oooh, no, Buffy – can we do the split-thing, when you get blueberry and I get chocolate, and then we split them?  OOH!"  Her voice ratcheted up another octave as she spun to Xander.  "And you're here!"

"I am," he agreed, amused.

"So, can you get a different kind too, and we'll just share all of them?"  Suddenly, she lowered her voice, her tone turning intense and serious.  "There's this crepe thing, and you can get apple inside, and it's french…"

"And they don't burn the food?" Buffy added dryly.  "Because that immediately gives them one up on me."

"Hey – the crispy brown bit is good for you.  I always eat it."  Xander said, smiling widely.  She returned the look suspiciously.

Dawn just laughed.  "Yeah, but you pretend to eat anything we burn.  Like that turkey last Christmas?  The one that still had giblets in it when it was cooked?"  She turned to Buffy.  "Yeah, he totally didn't eat it, he took it with him to a site and left it in the middle of the woods for wild animals."  

"Oh, really?"  Buffy's pursed her lips thoughtfully as Dawn smirked. It HAD been suspicious, the way the entire thing had disappeared in one day – but Xander had insisted, and Buffy really didn't want the thing around anymore, so she wasn't complaining.  Then again, it wasn't exactly against her nature to needle Xander a little about it.

Xander just looked at Dawn pointedly.  "I'm glad you remember Christmas, missy, 'cause that's the last a certain young lady will see of Santa Xander if you continue this disturbing trend of confession and incrimination."  

Dawn stuck her tongue out at him, grinning, and Buffy snorted.  "So, it's the Pancake House?"

"Yep!  Lemme just go get dressed," chirped Dawn.  She jumped up from her chair, but belatedly remembered her weak ankle and awkwardly collapsed back against the counter.  "Augh."

Buffy was next to her in a second.  "Does it still hurt?"  

"No, no, I just forgot about it until I stood up," Dawn blushed.  "That was more of a spaz-out than an actual reaction, sorry."

"Drama queen."

"Oh, gee, I wonder where I get it from?"

Buffy gasped.  "Strumpet!  That's it, you go straight to your room."  She pretended to grab Dawn's arm and yank her towards the stairs, but Xander could see the way the grip actually supported Dawn, held her up.  For her part, Dawn put up a token resistance, waving her cast menacingly.

"You're not the boss of me!"

"Am too!"

"Am not… uh, are not!"

"'Am not'?!?  Illiterate goon!"

It was better having Dawn home, thought Xander.  Better for Buffy and, he had to admit – better for him.

"And I thought I was a picky dresser," Buffy muttered to Xander as she grabbed a sweater from the end of the banister and shouted up the stairs.  "Dawn!  Come on, you're not dressing for the prom, you're dressing for breakfast at a truck stop."

The reply echoed down the stairs.  "Truckers?  Oooh, baby!  Now I'm gonna wear the EXTRA hoochie top!"

"So I'll be bringing the 'Jailbait' sign again?" Xander shouted back.  He and Buffy waited for a reply, but apparently hunger had overridden humor.  They both drifted to the door as Dawn thumped down the stairs after them.

"Okay, so straight to the land of starch and sugar, right?"  Xander pulled the door shut after Dawn.

Buffy nodded.  "Yeah, but we've got to stop at Anya's first, grab a new ace bandage from the training room for Her Highness' ankle."

"What?  We've got tons of those under the bathroom sink!  And pancakes, ladies – priorities."

"Hey, I'm on your side.  But she's got these bizarre phobias, two of which are feet and bandages."  

"Wait wait wait," Dawn protested, hobbling down the front steps.  "Fine, I'll give you the foot phobia's dumb, but I have it, so there.  But I'm NOT scared of bandages.  The ace bandage is purely foot-phobic."  She sat heavily on the last step and pointed at Buffy. 

"If I had a bandage phobia, I would've had to move out as soon as you started with the slaying.  No, I have a BAND-AID phobia."

Buffy smirked.  "Because that makes so much more sense?"

"Well, yeah, when your older sister seems to trail them behind her everywhere she goes!  Fuzzy, used, limp band-aids that stuck to my clothes when I went to school."  Dawn screwed up her face.  "Gross, bloody band-aids that she'd leave on the kitchen counter?  The WET band-aids I'd find clogging the shower drain?"

"Eugh."  Buffy made a face.  "Sorry."

"Exactly, and you can just stop giggling right now, Mr. Please-Don't-Kill-Me-Scary-Clown."

"Ah, but a clown DID try to kill me, the phobia's justified," Xander pointed out sagely.  "So there's method to MY madness." 

"Yeah," Buffy said, "but the clown tried to kill you after you were already afr…"

"Technicality," he claimed, waving her off.  "Now if we don't get to eat within the next twenty minutes, my stomach's going to climb right up my esophagus and eat YOU, so let's get going."  He opened the door of his truck for Dawn.  "The Magic Box incursion will be a brief operation – in, out, and the little one with the gimpy leg doesn't get out of the car because she spends too long sniffing the candles."

Buffy laughed as Dawn squawked in protest, but agreed.  "I'm in, I'm out, then we eat.  A minute, tops."  

"Shit."

Buffy was out of the door before the truck stopped moving.  She sprinted across the street, ignoring morning traffic in her panic.  Cars swerved, their horns sounding from inches away, but all Buffy could see was the front of the store.

Every display in the Magic Box had been ransacked. 

Books lay littered on the shop floor, candles tipped over and crushed, the glass fronts of the display cases hung in jagged shards.  Buffy wrestled with the keys in the lock, barely able to tear her eyes away from the view through the window.  Oh why, WHY had Anya and Marcus decided to go on vacation this week?  And WHY had she agreed to watch the store?  Buffy's stomach dropped as she thought of what could have been stolen, could have been destroyed… Columns of figures in Anya's neat script began to scroll through her head, money she could never afford to repay.  

Suddenly, a huge crash sounded from inside.  Buffy gave up the struggle with the lock; in one swift movement, she pulled back and gave the door a powerful kick that nearly took it off its hinges.  Light poured into the store, and she rushed inside, blinking furiously to adjust to the dark.

The interior was a mess.  The vandal had been there a long time, from the looks of it.  Rare books lay open on the floor, and there had been at least one offering made.  The air hung heavy with incense and a thick, metallic, cloying scent that Buffy didn't want to identify.  Lights had been turned on at intervals, though she couldn't sense a pattern.  The shop, reopened only a year before, looked almost as bad as it had when… Buffy's mind skipped away from the thought.  But she, her sister, her friends had all spent so much time and effort bringing the shop back to life, to see it like this?  It was a wreck, pure and simple, and it made Buffy want to cry.

Until she heard the crashing sound again.

Well-honed reflexes guided her to the back corner of the shop and she sprinted, her feet lightly picking across the rubble on the floor.  It wasn't just a crashing sound, she realized – it was an active, ongoing sound, the rhythm of desperation and carelessness and it was getting louder as she approached.  It was only two more steps until she could see around the corner, then one, then –

She gasped.

Spike was halfway up the bookcase, his back to her, and he was ripping books down from the shelves in furious motions.  He'd cleaned out the first few levels, then climbed the bookcase like a ladder, balancing like a rockclimber as he violently swept the shelves clear.  Searching for something, making angry noises, not caring at all what damaged he caused.

Not caring at all.

She was on him in a moment, fingers dug deep into the folds of his jacket, dragging him off his perch with an outraged scream.  Power flowed down her arms, through her legs, coursed around her chest in bands that squeezed her heart so firmly, she thought she felt it burst.  The sensations were too much, she couldn't notice that Spike didn't fight her grip, that his back collapsed against her, that he could barely stand.  Spike was no longer a consideration.

She threw him out of the alcove, a terrible flight that landed him in the center of the store, and followed, stalking to his supine form.  She reveled in the sparks that clouded her vision, the way her muscles lengthened and flowed; she knelt beside him, marveling at her body's precision.  The way her hand so easily pinned his struggling form to the ground by the shoulder, grinding it into the granite floor.  She could push a little harder, she realized, and grind that shoulder to powder.

But there was no need.  Because her other hand knew exactly where a stake was hidden, and it flew to the spot, drawing out the long splinter of wood with instinctive finesse.  Pin the creature down, then pierce its heart, a simple stanza of thrilling verse.  She watched her own hands in fascination; they were so adept, so clean, so concise.

And then the image was marred.  A single hand coming up to grasp her wrist, a pale white hand.  At first she took no notice, intent on plunging the splinter through its target, but something was wrong.  The third hand was working in concurrence with her two, pulling the weapon closer, guiding it to the core.  But that was wrong, she knew – only two hands could do this act, only she could harness this power truly.  She pulled her strike.  The third hand had no right to be there, and she fixed it with a baleful stare.

White.  White, but horribly mangled.  Blue-gray-white lines ran through it, as though the hand was fueled by chalk instead of blood.  A lattice of ravaged skin, moldy white and purple, stretched tight across knucklebones so stark, they could only belong to one who was starving.  Was he starving?  Unwillingly, her mind followed the logical line – from hand to arm, arm to neck, neck to face.  

And something snapped.

"Oh my god, Spike."  Buffy breathed.  She realized that she had a stake in her hand; she tossed it aside and leaned forward, desperately searching the vampire's face.

If it could even be called a face anymore.

His skin was so tight.  She reached out to follow the line of his cheekbone, but stopped at the last moment – it looked like the skin might split at a touch.  By contrast, his eyes had almost swollen shut and were weeping milky tears.  He was blinking, though.  Frantically.  She avoided his eyes for a moment longer, skimming her gaze over his swollen lips, the slight froth at the corners of his mouth, the two deep punctures where his fangs, at some point, seemed to have gone straight through his lower lip.  She had never seen him injured like this.  She felt helpless.

"Kane…"  The name came out in a hushed gust of air, and Buffy missed it.  She quickly bent over his lips again, tried to encourage him by brushing a finger against his brow.  Her hand came away covered in his hair.

"T's Kane."  She was close enough to hear this time, and also close enough to smell.  The word was borne on a wind that stank of decomposition and garlic, almost causing her to retch.  She swallowed firmly – every motion of his tongue was an effort, she could tell, and anything beyond guttural noises would be beyond him.  

His stiff and crabbed hand suddenly pushed her away, and she obeyed, sitting back on her heels anxiously.  All at once, a strangled sound wrenched from him and he writhed, the froth at his mouth foaming even more furiously, the white tears coursing down his face in hissing trails that left scorched red tracks behind them.  It lasted only seconds, and then he was still again.

Buffy pulled herself closer and met his eyes.  They were still blue, though the whites had darkened to a dingy gray, flecked in places with yellow.  But he was still in there, and fighting enough to focus on her.  To draw her in.

"Kane, can Kane help you?" she guessed desperately.  Unconsciously, she caught his twisted hand in hers, making repetitive soothing gestures against his wrist.  He snarled in response to her question, and she tried again.

"Kane did this?"  Yes, that was it, and he told her so by staring her in the eye, holding his body absolutely still for one whole second – a massive effort; as soon as he relaxed his will, the tremors started anew, shaking his body relentlessly.

He didn't expect to be saved, she realized.  He wanted her to avenge him, to act on his last words, to –

"Oh, God… Anya's gonna flip.  Buffy, what the hell – oh, holy shit!"

Xander froze in the doorway, a silhouette backed by the rising sun.  One hand carried a wrench, obviously pulled from the bed of his truck only moments before.  But the scene he faced didn't make any sense; Anya's shop looted, Buffy on the floor and close to tears, and Spike – twitching and gurgling, apparently unable to control his body at all.  

It wasn't something that could be taken in easily.

He was so confused that he didn't think to stop Dawn as she stepped out from behind him, her own stake held at the ready.  He heard the girl breathe Spike's name, saw her lurch down the few stairs to the shop floor.  He knew that something was going to happen, and that he really should try to stop it.

But that kind of intuition never gives enough notice.  So all he could do was stand and gape as Dawn cried the vampire's name again, her arms extended to him with fingers splayed wide.  

And then the watched as her ankle collapsed and she slammed to her knees.  The skin stretched across her kneecaps split like tissue paper, even though they landed on soft carpet and scattered papers.  He felt himself lunge forward as Dawn's head rolled back, her arms dropped to her sides, and her now-kneeling figure began to tip over.  But he was at least five feet away, and she was falling fast.

Buffy saw her sister fall, but didn't make sense of it until the skin on Dawn's knees split.  Then all of Spike's words about fragility, of mystery illnesses – all of it flooded back.  Buffy watched as Dawn's eyes left Spike's form and rolled back in her skull, her mouth falling open as she lost consciousness.  And she began to fall forward, headlong towards a spot where the stone floor peeked through the carpets and papers, and Buffy realized that her sister's skull would shatter like an egg.  She lunged as well, briefly wondering how to get around Spike.

But there was no need.  As Dawn pitched forward on the balance of her knees, something slid between her and the jumble of sharp-cornered books and boxes, something's firm hands caught and cushioned her head before it came to rest on a thumping chest.  And by the time Buffy and Xander had reached the spot where Dawn had fallen, Spike was cradling her to him, murmuring her name through undamaged lips, and brushing back her hair with nimble fingers.  Whole again, and weeping.

TBC


	21. Rhythm

*

The steps slip away under her feet, but she barely notices.  Something in her body is alive and desperate, reaching for the twitching figure with all its might.  And Dawn lets it go, lets it flow, out from her tight chest and throat in a burst of soothing green.  As it flees her body, it leaves a euphoric feeling in its wake; an undertow that ripples through her, leaves her boneless.  Leaves her weak.

But she's too far gone to notice.  Like a switch has flipped in her mind, she feels her eyes lose focus, her consciousness begin to slip away.  But rather than slip down into blackness, she finds herself carried along in the tide – down her own arms, along her own fingers.  And then, away from her body in a lightening-quick leap that ends at Spike.

In Spike.  This Spike is not anyone one she knows – the jokes, the snarls, the leather and smoke.  All of the trappings have been stripped away.  This is a Spike of sinews and muscle, of calcium and blood.  His body is a whole new world, a universe to explore, and she marvels absently at its ingenuity.  But there is no time to sightsee; the coursing flow that has caught her up rushes on, intent on a task that she never knew she could do.

She scours every cell of him.  A diseased white coating, an oily sheen.  She rips them all off, one by one, hoping she hasn't gone too deep.  The routine gets easier as she goes along, marshalling his immune system as deputies.  Stripping toxins, consuming his death, cleaning as thoroughly as she can until the cool green energy has dulled so a murky algae gray.  Around her, his body convulses; but it is a good tightening, as his body recognizes all its parts again, regains the feeling of being whole and healthy and one.

It is a shock to be yanked from that body, cool and cleansed, and back into her own.

She has no energy left.  The swamp-colored energy eddies through her, transformed to a sickening poison.  Her body is her own again, but only for a moment; dimly, she feels the shattering pain as her ankle crumples in on itself, bones sliding together and grating so loud, she wonders that no one else can hear it.  But there's not enough time to think about it, as her knees hit the carpet – her skin rips neat and deep, a cut as precise as a surgeon's.  

Then the floor is rushing up to meet her, a glittering patch of stone and lacquer, and she finally registers fear.  She can feel herself sinking into unconsciousness, black and empty and welcoming, when something suddenly pulls her close.  

  
Something safe and solid, gently easing her to the ground.  Her body slackens and she lets it all go, abandoning the pain and confusion as the sound of two heartbeats thrum in her ears.

"Hospital."

Xander stumbled down the steps, moving all at once.  "We have to get her to the hospital, before anything else happens to her – what the hell DID happen to her?  She just fell!"

Buffy looked to Spike, but he was too wrapped up in Dawn to offer any solutions.  He was making quick, gentle adjustments to the unconscious girl's form, easing her against his chest in a position more natural to her body.  Dawn lolled against him, completely unconscious.

"Dawn, sweetie, can you open your eyes?" Buffy leaned close over her sister, surreptitiously checking her breath, her pulse.  Spike reluctantly edged back to give her space.

"She's out – don't know what did it, but I definitely heard her ankle go before she fell."  He peeled Dawn's hair off her sweat-dampened forehead, tucking it behind her ear expertly. 

Buffy looked at him.  "And you – you're fine now."  The question was flat and hard, leached of all emotion.  Spike swallowed.

"Yeah, fine.  You're heading to the hospital?"  There were more important things to talk about.

For once, Xander agreed with Spike.  "Yeah, Buff, we gotta get her help," he affirmed.  There was a time to explore Spike's miraculous healing, and that time was later.  "I'll go pull the car up."  He spun and darted out the door, kicking a path through the debris as he went.

"Knees, ankle – did she hit her head?"  

"No, I got her," Spike replied.  "But she might have some bruises, I don't know how much pressure I put on her when I grabbed her."

"Okay, okay," Buffy breathed.  Her hands danced over Dawn, first along her face, then her shoulder, her shin.  Long sweeping gestures that checked for any injuries, but ended as worried caresses.  She looked up at Spike.  "Do you think she can move?"

"On her own?  No," Spike said, shifting gradually.  Wordlessly, Buffy reached out to take some of Dawn's weight.  Between them, they managed to cradle her sideways against Spike's chest as he sat upright, her head pinned delicately between his jaw and shoulder, her arms folded up against her chest.  Working together in perfect harmony, all their attention focused on the fragile girl.

Xander reappeared, panting.  "Okay, I'm on the sidewalk – should we put her in the bed, or in the cab?"  

"Bed'll jolt her," Spike snapped, more in concern than irritation.  Buffy nodded, turning to face Xander.

"I'll sit in the cab, put her on my lap – you drive slow, and I'll be able to hold her still," she explained.  There was a rustling noise behind her, and she spun back around.

"Let's go, then."  Spike was on his feet, Dawn still in his arms.  He was speaking to her, something low and murmured that Buffy couldn't quite make out, and his expression was… complicated.  Intensity, trust, hope, anger, fear; he nodded shortly to Xander and swept up the stairs, his way clear along the path that the man had made.

Then he did something odd.  

He stopped where the sunlight streamed in through the door, his head tilted to the side quizzically.  Dawn shifted a little in his arms, and he looked down at her, his throat closing up.  He wasn't sure what she had done, and he didn't know why she had done it.  But whatever it was, it had left him whole and her in pieces, so he would accept it and be grateful.  

No matter what she had done, he told himself firmly, he would accept it.  Gently, deliberately, he took one step into the broad daylight.

Buffy saw the result immediately.  Every covered part of Spike began to smoke, that strange misty-smoke that filtered through cotton and wool and smelled like dead leaves.  Spike stepped back into the shadows of the store as soon as it happened, turning away from the light as though pained by the sight of it.  As he twisted, she could see the raised blisters on his hands, the red sheen to his face.  

Something in her heart lurched as he turned, his back to the world once more.  His entire being was visibly closing up, hiding away the emotions that had raged in him only moments earlier.  It was a stern reaction, lips pressed together tight, his head shaking minutely as though he was arguing with himself.  She looked out the door again, to where Xander's truck gleamed bluely.  What had that been about?

"You have to take her," Spike gritted out.  He turned to Xander, still standing at the bottom of the stairs.  

"Oh – okay." Xander was taken aback for a moment; since when would Spike relinquish Dawn to HIM?  A part of him gloated.  Finally, something Spike had to hand over.  But the vampire was so serious, so tense… And honestly, Xander didn't really want to gloat.  Dawn was hurt, they had to help her.  Any way they could.

The transfer was quick, a delicate tipping of Dawn's weight from Spike's body to Xander's.  Buffy hovered anxiously, keenly aware that she had to wait for her turn until they reached the car.  She picked up one of Dawn's flip-flops from the ground and carefully slipped the other shoe from her right foot, desperately looking for something to do.

"Okay, we're ready," Xander said.  Spike stepped back, a strangely formal gesture, his shoulders stiff and eyes glittering. 

It wasn't fair to leave him like this, Buffy thought.  Her sister murmured in Xander's arms, and Spike made an arrested movement towards her.  It was hardly noticeable, but combined with the way his eyes followed her, how every muscle in his body was forced to stay still?  She couldn't leave him like this.

"Go back to the house," she murmured, laying a hand on his arm.  He blinked, dragging his eyes away from Dawn, his intense stare resting on Buffy heavily.  She caught her breath.

"What?"  He heard her, of course – this was a different question, and she heard all it encompassed.  She also knew how important her response would be.

"Please go back to the house; we'll bring her back there, she'll want to see you."  Because Dawn would want to see him, that was true.  But he smiled; she hadn't revoked his invitation; she wanted him close.

"Right, pet."  He grew serious again.  "Be very careful with her joints – it might not just be bones, it could be ligaments."  He was nervous and overcompensating, and he knew it.  He stepped back again, thrusting his hands into his pockets.  "Go.  She'll hurt when she wakes up."

Buffy turned to Xander.  "Ready?"

"Set."  He gently hoisted Dawn in his arms, waiting for Buffy to lead the way.

Spike didn't watch as they went into the glaring sunlight, still scuffing his boots in the papers at his feet.  He couldn't follow them into that harsh brightness; he wasn't sure if he was anguished, or relieved.

The butcher didn't recognize him at first, but it didn't last long.  A request for two pints and a quick flash of fang not only got him the old discount, but a remarkably affectionate welcome.  Spike smiled to himself – he, or at least his business, had been missed.

He entered the house with little problem; Buffy hadn't thought to give him the key, and he hadn't thought to ask.  But those girls never really caught on to the fact that open windows on the ground floor were just as accessible as doors to him, and it was a moment's work to scramble into the kitchen.  Lacking in grace, maybe, but got the job done.

He'd managed to scrounge an old storage blanket from the Magic Box; he left it on the porch, letting it smolder in solitude.  It would be best to get any hunger-pains out of the way now, while the girls were out, he supposed.  It would also give him the chance to test his theory further.  

He warmed a cup of blood, braced himself and then gulped it down in hurried swallows.  It tasted the same, tinny and thick, slightly textured, nourishing.  No difference at all.  He washed the mug briskly, setting it back exactly where he'd found it.  Hopefully, the blood scent would be gone when the girls got home.

Which could take hours, come to think of it.  It could take hours for her to clear through the hospital, considering their experience in Massachusetts, and in the meanwhile….

He was alone, and invited, in Buffy's house.  

He tucked the brown-bagged blood in the back of the fridge, snagged a couple of stale pretzels from a bowl in the middle of the kitchen counter, and began to roam.  

The house was much as he remembered, with a few purely Harris touches.  Foolish little racks here and there, well-made but generally unnecessary.  The coffee table was entirely new – he wondered what had brought that change about.  

Most of the photos were old, featuring Buffy, Dawn, Joyce.  Some newer ones had Xander, grinning wide.  Spike studied those shots carefully, trying to judge the boy's expression.  He looked proud, arrogant, confidant – and, Spike hated to admit, devoted.  Perhaps not devoted in the same way he himself was, but emotions ran deep.  He sighed, propped the frame upright again.  Harris now came as part of the Summers package, it seemed.  He turned away from the living room and wandered back into the kitchen.

The basement was completely new.  Obviously, Harris had spent a lot of time down here; the space had become a training room, well-ventilated and well-lit.  Buffy's arsenal adorned the walls, old favorites hanging near the stairs within easy reach.  He paced around slowly, careful not to touch anything.  Some of the weapons were completely unrecognizable, random twists of wood and metal that made Spike vaguely uncomfortable.  He made his way up the stairs warily – a lot of things had changed.

And there was upstairs.  Oh, he didn't want to go there – it was off-limits, he knew, somewhere he shouldn't wander.  But another, masochistic part of him insisted that he climb the stairs, ignore Buffy's room, ignore Dawn's.  He headed straight for the white-tiled room that featured so prominently in his memory.

It was so small.  That was the first thought that struck him; in his memory, it was vast and unforgiving, a huge arena in which he'd lost a horrible battle.  The room was lit by filtered sunlight, a hazy glow that made edges softer, took away the stark sheen.  Stepping inside, his senses flared – smells of Buffy, yes, but also the more astringent smell of Xander.  Cologne, shaving cream, antiperspirant; a thoroughly masculine thread overlaid Buffy's florals, sullied them.  He absently wondered if Buffy would smell Harris-like, purely from sharing a bathroom.  

No, the room was different now.  Before, it had been her room, a private room, an inner sanctum.  She would never have let him in, he guessed, much as she had locked away other parts of her.  And the drive to convince her, to show her that he belonged…

He stepped out of the room and quickly ran down the stairs.  That drive had gotten him to where he was today.  Sitting on a chair in the Summers' living room, an interloper, waiting for his damaged girls to come home.  He'd never meant to hurt either of them, they meant more to him than the world - but he'd broken them both, just the same.

The door slammed open much earlier than he expected, startling him out of a much-needed doze.  He sprang to his feet, remembering all at once that he had no weapon, wondering if he could get to the basement in time.

"Oh.  You're here."  Xander looked at him dispassionately; Spike instinctively slouched into a nonchalant pose.

"Buffy told me to wait," he drawled.  Xander shrugged, turned around.

"Buff, Spike's inside – that okay?"

"Yeah!"  Buffy appeared in the doorway, Dawn in her arms.  Again, Spike noticed the incongruity of Buffy carrying a taller girl.  But then Dawn lifted her head and met his eyes, and nothing else mattered.

"Love, you all right?"  He crossed the room quickly and Dawn reached for him, an unexpected move that nearly set Buffy off-balance.  She swiftly decamped to the couch, setting her sister down in the center with infinite care.  Spike followed, his gaze never leaving Dawn.  

The intensity between them was electric, and it made Buffy a little nervous.  The timbre in his voice changed as he spoke to her, and Dawn responded in kind.  They were speaking lowly, half-muttered phrases incomprehensible to Buffy.  She shifted a little.  They were so close.  This was weird.

"You what?"  Spike said loudly to Dawn, turning to Buffy.  "You didn't take her to the hospital?  Where were you?"

Buffy stifled her irritation.  "We kind of realized that it might not be a good thing, bringing her to an emergency room full of injured people."

"Yeah, I could get worse, it would suck."  Dawn smiled up at him wanly.  Her black eyes were back, and she truly looked as though she'd been drained.  Pale and sickly, hollow.  His heart double-beat again, erratically, and he winced.

"She was fine in Massachusetts," Spike rumbled.  They'd put ace bandages here and there, but what if there was something deeper wrong, something they couldn't see…

Xander stepped in.  "Yeah, and suburban Mass has SO much in common with Sunnydale, Spike."  Spike glowered.  "We're talking the difference between bagel-cutting incidents and demonic attacks.  So no, we thought we'd make it a home job."

"It's okay, really!"  Dawn soothed, and Spike immediately felt guilty.  She was the one hurt, he should be putting her at ease – certainly not the other way around.  He swiftly schooled his features, nodded, shrugging apologetically at Buffy.

Buffy understood; she'd been just as furious when Xander had brought up the problem in the first place.  More furious because it was a good point.  She rolled her eyes a little and shrugged, still miffed, but relenting.

Dawn fidgeted a little; all three heads snapped around to look at her, and she laughed.  

"Guys, I'm fine – tired again, which is totally annoying, and I've got a monster headache," she stopped in mid eye-roll as the movement made her head twinge, "and ow, but honestly?"  She slumped suddenly, and Spike moved closer, sliding his arm around her caving shoulders.  "I just want to go to sleep for a while."

"Then you will."  Gracefully, Spike swept her up, a move that somehow managed to catch her up without jarring her body or her headache.  Dawn sighed happily, and Buffy reluctantly waved her consent to Spike's querying glance.  

"I'll call Giles," she said wearily.  "He might know what's going on here."  She rose to her feet as Dawn smiled.  She leaned over; one of Dawn's eyebrows was sticking up awkwardly, an angular peak.  She smoothed it down with her thumb, and Dawn leaned into the touch.  For a moment she was thrown by the contact, the way her sister drifted towards her, letting her eyes close, looking so peaceful.  

"You rest, sweetie, I'll bring something up later," she whispered.  Dawn nodded drowsily, her head falling back on Spike's chest.  Buffy smiled helplessly, an expression that lingered when she looked up to Spike's face – and saw the same smile.  It was a giddy feeling; Dawn was safe and loved, and here.

"No no, don't go," Dawn mumbled from the bed as Spike tried to slip from the room.  He returned to her bedside, kneeling close, but she scooted backwards and gestured for him to climb up on the covers beside her.

"Dawn, love, I don't think…"

She snorted.  Unfortunately, that made her head hurt; she pressed a hand to her temple and grimaced.  "Not like that, dork, you're like my brother.  Oh, and ick much?  No, it's something else."

Hesitantly, one eye on the door, he lay down on the bed.  "One sound from those stairs, nibblet…"

"Shhh."  Dawn pressed her ear to his chest, listening hard.

There it was.  Not a regular heartbeat by any means; a deep thumping, like the beat of a drum.  She reached up to her neck and took her own pulse, timing it with his.  In comparison, she thrummed like a hummingbird, about four beats to every one of his.  She lifted her head.

"I thought so." Her voice was hushed, but her eyes glittered with excitement.

"Don't get all worked up, it's slowing down."  Spike didn't need to press his ear to Dawn's chest to hear her heart – it pounded in his ears whenever she was close, a slightly faster beat than Buffy's, light and sweet where Buffy's pounded deep and rich.  Unchanging, always.

"But it's there," she breathed.  "And that might mean…"

"No."  He stopped her.  "No, Dawn – I still burn in the sun, I still drink blood.  Nothing changed for me at all."

She looked at him, her expression thoughtful.  "So… you thought so, too?"

He closed his eyes; she was too bright to look at.  "Yeah, bit.  Maybe," he said tightly.

That was answer enough.  She burrowed further under the covers until she was flat on her stomach – an ungainly pose, but it was Spike, so it didn't matter.  She turned her face towards him; he was flat on his back, staring at the ceiling with an unfathomable expression.  Hesitantly, she reached out a hand and put it on his shoulder.  A show of understanding, sympathy – there was no way to put it into words.

It didn't take long for Dawn's breaths to even and steady.  It was only then that he reached to cover her hand in his, let himself envy and pity the pulse at her wrist, and fall into a troubled sleep.

TBC


	22. Long Distance

*

It was always weird calling Giles.  She never could remember what time it was in Bath, and she didn't want to call him too much, and the ringing was weird – like a cross between a busy signal and a real ring.  She replaced the receiver after the first double-ring, taking another look at the clock.  One in the afternoon… was it plus eight or minus eight?  Did it matter?  She picked up the phone and hit redial.

But something nagged at her.  There was something weird, with daylight savings time – sometimes it was nine hours' difference.  She hung up again, her hand clutched tight around the cordless.  That would mean either four in the morning or ten at night, and she had a weird feeling it was four.  Should she just wait another couple of hours, in case he wasn't up?  But Dawn…

The phone rang in her hand, and she jumped a mile.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Buffy."  The accented voice flowed like a tonic into her ear.  

"Giles!  I can't believe you called!" she exclaimed happily.  Then, immediately suspicious: "Wait – why did you call?"

"You have an, eh - distinctive ring," he replied dryly.  

"Oh," she said.  "OH!  Sorry!" 

"Quite all right," he chuckled.  On his end of the line, something fell heavily to the floor.  "Lovely to hear from you, of course.  I just got in the door – have you been ringing long?"

The reason for calling rushed back to her.  "No, Giles, I just started.  I'm sorry if I woke you up, but it's important."

"It must be, if you thought you were waking me – it's evening, by the way," he said quickly.  She heard his quick steps across a wooden floor, and wondered again what his flat in England looked like.  "Are you all well?  Or is that why you're calling?"

"Kind of."  Buffy leaned back against the wall.  Poor Giles.  She didn't call him enough to just chatter; something in her thought he'd find it silly, frivolous.  But times like this, she regretted not calling him with lighter news.  The sound of her voice must be permanently linked to his "danger" radar.

Not that that was anything new.

"It's Dawn, Giles."

The intake of breath was brief, but she heard it all the same.  "Can you get a flight?  Is someone with her?"

"No, no!  Giles, she's here.  Spike brought her home."  Oh, crap.  She winced, waiting for the blast.

But no blast.  "He did."  So low and cold, it nearly gave her a chill.  Not good.  So not good that images of Spike burning, dusting, scalded into oblivion by some far-off spell began to cycle through her mind, and she found herself rushing to get an explanation out, anything to stop Giles' vengeful side from awakening.

It tumbled from her, the whole sorry tale.  She kept having to backtrack, confused herself about some of the sequencing, but Giles listened patiently through it all.  She could hear the clink of ice in a glass, the unusual sound of his swallow, and she closed her eyes as she rambled.  It was easier; with her eyes closed, she could imagine him sitting close, his expression serious and stern.  And he'd fix it all.

"She's healing them, I think – but I she doesn't mean to do it, and it's hurting her…"  Her throat closed up

"And how are you sure that Spike's recovery had anything to do with Dawn," Giles said.  He was grasping at straws, she knew, but at least he was trying.  "And you said the floor was littered – could she have slipped on the stairs, faltered on her bad ankle?"

"No, she wasn't on the stairs anymore, and her ankle was almost better.  She did it; I could see it," she replied.  And then she ground to a halt.

Buffy wasn't a particularly lyrical person, so it was hard to describe.  But she tried, hoping some of the meaning would filter through.

"Well, the inside of the store was dark, so all the light was coming from outside, through the door.  And you know when light picks up dust in the air, or whatever it is, that stuff that kind of glints?  Like particles or…" she trailed off.  "Oh, I don't know."

"No, go on, Buffy."  He sounded urgent, but also understanding.  Surely he'd tell her if she was just babbling, right?

Right.  "Okay.  Well, it all – moved.  Like, sideways.  Like – whoosh!"  She unconsciously made a sweeping motion with her hand, realizing too late that Giles wasn't really here, wasn't really seeing her.  Something in her stomach dropped a little, but she recovered.  

"And it happened just before Dawn fell.  She reached out, and there wasn't any wind, but all of the sparkly things in the air suddenly whooshed towards Spike."  It had been so odd; like an invisible arrow shooting through a cloud, dragging mist or vapor behind it.  Urgent and precise; and aimed directly at Spike.

"Indeed."  He rumbled the word, half-reluctant, half-intrigued.  She caught the tone; Spike still wasn't in Giles' good books, but even he knew that Spike would never harm Dawn.  "Could it have been a spell that Spike did while he was alone in the shop?"

Buffy was silent.  The funny smells when she walked in, the burnt offering, the books –  he'd been so ill, she didn't think he could manage to pull off such complicated magic.  But it was something to think on.  

"Maybe," she allowed.  She'd have to consider every possibility if she wanted to find a solution.  "But it wasn't just one way."

"Oh?"

"A second after everything whooshed towards Spike and me, it went back to her."

A pause.  "Really."

"The same way – except, more fractured, a little slower.  It dragged, somehow."  No arrow this time.  A handful of pebbles, fighting its way against the tide of sparkly particles in the morning sun.  "And then she fell down, and Giles – she broke."

"Buffy…"  There it was.  The way he said her name, full of sympathy and understanding, making up for every time he'd held back from hugging her, every time he'd kept a professional distance.  It always made her choke up; today was no exception.

"Giles, I don't know what to do!"  She said, crouching down against the doorjamb.  The solid wood felt good against her spine.  "I can't fight it, it's happening all at once, she's so hurt and she doesn't want me to worry…"

"But you do worry, of course you do," he murmured.  She tried to breathe evenly, tried to collect herself, and Giles just waited on the other end of the line.  Listening, as always.

Finally, she was able to speak without sounding strangled.  "Giles, I don't know what to do."

The regret in his voice made her want to cry again; she knew what he was going to say, and didn't want to hear it.  

"Buffy, I wish I could fly over… But there are things here I must attend to, an unusual situation…"  He stopped, all too aware that the best excuse wouldn't help.  "I'm so sorry, I really do wish I could be there.  For you and Dawn."

But he couldn't.  She understood that, on most levels.  Giles had his own life, his own demons to fight.  Cockney rhyming demons with bad teeth, she thought, scowling.  And it had to be something important, she reluctantly admitted.  He took his de facto parent status seriously when one of them was in trouble.

"Okay, I get it – but advice would be great, if you have any to hand out."

A rustling noise echoed down the line – not book-rustling, maybe paper?  "I've been looking about, Buffy, and I might be able to get in touch with someone who can help.  Will you be all right for a few days, or should I try and find a, a healer, or someone who might make her comfortable..?"

Buffy's voice hardened.  "No witches."

"No, Buffy.  No witches."  He sighed a little, but she ignored it.  This was one topic on which she wouldn't budge.

"I'll ring around tonight; hopefully, one of my colleagues will have connections."  His voice warmed again, losing its business-like edge.  "And Buffy – don't wear yourself down.  I may not… appreciate Spike, but I believe he'll help you if he can."

"Okay."  She smiled a little, scrunching further down on the floor.  She'd never want to admit it, but it felt nice, having someone tell her what to do again.

"I'll call you as soon as I get any word.  And you shall do the same?"

"I shall," Buffy replied teasingly.  Then, softly: "Miss you, Giles."

"And I you, Buffy.  I'll ring you."

"Goodnight."  She felt lighter somehow, energized again.  She rose from the floor in one swift movement.  Hot chocolate.  Dawn liked hot chocolate, especially in bed.  She set the phone down on the counter, humming as she went.  

Giles would help her fix it.  Giles could fix anything.

The way was familiar.  Down one highway until the huge Jack-in-the-Box drive-in, then a sharp right onto the interstate; Xander drove on autopilot, barely noticing the stunning scenery as it rushed by him.

The truck growled below him, as if it recognized the route as well.  It should; they had certainly taken the trip often enough.  Once a week had gradually slipped into once every two, something he'd felt guilty about.  But then they'd both realized that the short, successive visits weren't as good as the distanced long ones, days spent together after weeks apart.  And so he changed his pattern.  About once a month, he'd wake up early, leave an ambiguous note on the counter and drive away from the rising sun.

He couldn't outrun it, of course.  But it seemed appropriate somehow; racing away from the coming day, as though he was trying to steal back some of the time he'd lost to night.  

The first time he had the thought, it hit him like a sledgehammer.  He'd wrenched the truck to the side of the road, ignoring the blaring horns and glaring headlights, to tumble out of the cab retching.  Trembling in anger, pain and grief, wondering why he'd ever let himself entertain the thought that this entire ritual was just a desperate attempt to travel back in time.

Because no one could travel back in time.  Demons, sorcerers, witches; they could do all sorts of terrifying things, but none could turn back time.  He'd give anything to find a way.  Because then, that awful morning never would have happened.  And all that followed?  It would be wiped away.

He would erase the feeling of Willow shaking in his arms, too grief-stricken to be sick, too anguished to speak, clinging on to him as though his arms were all that kept him grounded.  He would rub out the image of her disappearing with Giles in a flash of light, her form so much smaller and withdrawn than he'd ever known.  He would remove the days he'd spent packing her things in huge cardboard boxes, keenly aware of Buffy's deliberate absence, of the way she refused to even glance at the forwarding address.  And he could expunge any knowledge of a place called "Great Oakwoods" from his mind, and all the damning associations with it.

Buffy might know by now.  She never drove the truck, but one glance at the odometer would tell of more than trips to the building site or Blockbuster's.  He wasn't too sure of how much Slayer-senses amplified her hearing, if at all.  He tried to call Willow from the office; the only number she had was his cell.  He intentionally kept all emailing to his office computer, and they both tried to write more than speak.  But every once in a while, he'd get a loaded glare from Buffy after a cell call, and it made him flinch.

He crested a hill, and his heart began to beat erratically.  He always imagined he could see the development from here, though he knew it was still a few miles off.  Small vineyards dotted the landscape in a way that made Xander think of Italy.  He'd never been to Italy; this might be the closest he would get.  

And Willow lived here now, all the time.  Surrounded by rolling fields of green, orderly rows twined round with vines.  She could wander around in the grass and breathe in the scented air, wander for miles without a soul in sight, she could lay on her back at night and see the stars of every constellation glowing down on her as though she were Eve in Eden.

It was a very pretty prison.

He tried to focus on the scenery as he approached the front gates.  They swung open seamlessly, huge iron sculptures that looked more like art than functional.  As Xander passed, Karl waved cheerily from the watchman's kiosk.  Xander smiled a little as he waved back.  He was one of the regulars.

His regular parking space was occupied, which was slightly unusual.  Many of the Great Oakwoods residents were rarely visited by family and friends; the facility was pretty remote, and the drive was long.  Other residents had come here for that exact reason – no visitors.  Xander eased himself out of the cab gradually, shaking out his limbs.  You had to be pretty dedicated to keep coming on back.

"Xander!"  He turned to see a woman leaving her apartment.  The two-level complex had something of the motel about it, though Xander had never seen any motel as well-kept.  

"Hey, Nance!"  He watched as Nancy locked her door and made her way down the stairs.  Her clothes hung loosely on her body, bulky sweats with a jacket on top, white sneakers on her feet.  It was her usual outfit; Xander saw her often on his visits.  He looked forward to seeing her, actually.  In contrast to many of the others, she was always eager to talk, and her wide, kind face always wore a grin.  She jogged over to him.

"Haven't seen you around for a while, stranger.  How's the big bad world?"  She held her arms wide for a hug, and he complied.  Carefully, though – beneath the voluminous cotton, Nancy's body was frail and fragile.  

"Oh, bad and big, nothing interesting happening at all," he said, grinning back.  She made a sarcastic noise and rolled her eyes.  "How are you?"

"Same old same old, m'dear."  She leaned against the door of the truck and he followed suit.  "Paying for my earthly sins, as usual."

He looked at her, concerned.  "So no change?"

"None whatsoever.  The osteoporosis is totally irreversible, my insides are as worthless as those of an '83 Oldsmobile, and expected to last about as long.  Probably lasted longer than I should, considering I wasn't fueling up the vehicle." She shrugged noncommittally, and Xander cringed.  He couldn't tell whether he should applaud her realistic attitude or urge her to stay optimistic.  She had been disappointed too many times.

"But nothing recently?"

She smiled at him.  "No, I've been pretty good since last time I saw you.  Knock on wood."  She shoved away from the truck.  "But you're not here to entertain me, are you?"

"Could be," he replied gamely, but it was just another old routine.  Nancy waved him up the stairs.

"Off you go.  Oh – and she got a haircut," she said in a stage whisper.  Xander turned in time to see her smirk before she disappeared around the corner of the building again.

He climbed the stairs quickly; this part was like pulling off a band-aid.  The quicker he did it, the less time he had to think, and that meant it hurt less.  He reached into his pocket for the key she'd given him.  "For emergencies", technically, but he'd grown accustomed to using it.  For the first few months, he'd had to use it all the time.

But he hoped he wouldn't need it now.  He let it dangle from the fingers of one hand as the raised the other to knock on the door.  Three shallow knocks, so as not to carry to other rooms. 

"Come in!"  Xander took a deep breath and tried the doorknob: unlocked.  He pushed, and walked into a cheery living room.

"Xander!"  She rose from her desk, startled.  Her hair was pinned on top of her head with a pencil; it hadn't been long enough to do that last time he saw her.  She hadn't dyed it again either.  At the time, Xander had wondered if it was some bizarre masochism – letting the red grow out, a stark contrast where it met the natural auburn.  He had never asked.

"Hey, Will."  And then his arms were full of affection-starved girl.  She buried her head in his neck, the bridge of her nose pressed hard against the place where his throat met his shoulder.  He rocked slowly, side to side, hands pressing tight against her back; he narrowly avoided getting blinded by the pencil in her hair.

"Nice haircut."

"Thank you!"  She hesitated.  "…for the compliment that you never would have noticed.  Nancy?"

He grinned sheepishly.  "Yeah."

"She SO doesn't know you as well as I do."  Willow smiled quickly, a furtive tug on her lips that vanished quickly.  She gestured to the couch and he took his usual seat, tossing a couple of the more elaborate pillows out of the way.  Willow darted back to the desk and quickly typed something on her laptop before shutting it down.

"I was just writing you an email!  I'm sorry I didn't reply to the last one – I got all caught up in the argument with some physics student about wave-particle theory."  She scowled.  "I think he knows he's wrong, and he's just trying to piss me off now."

"Damn physicists."

"You have no idea.  Drink?"  She didn't wait for an answer, darting into the tiny kitchenette joined onto the main room.  Along with the shoebox bedroom, it made up Willow's world.  He could see her over the divider, her head dipping as she searched her fridge for the beer she usually saved for him. 

"But I wasn't debating physics all the time, I promise.  I found a bunch of stuff about bones.  There's a huge site about osteogenesis imperfecta."  Xander looked at her helplessly.  "Brittle bone disease, basically.  It's got something to do with protein structure abnormalities in kids' bones – but you'd know from birth, it's not something that you can get later in life."  She came back into the room, a beer in one hand and her soda in the other.  She held it out to him, but he shook his head.

"No, Will – I can't stay too long."  He watched her face fall, but she masked it quickly.  

"Oh.  Okay, then… how are you?"  She didn't want to know.  He'd asked her to look up brittle bones and she had.  He did that sometimes; sent her an email asking for something weird or obscure, but always science-based.  Astronomy, chemistry, physics, medical studies – for a year and a half, she'd combed the web for him.  Never asking why, never needing a reason.  Just getting it done.

"Not so good, Will."  Xander stopped, unsure of how far he should go.  Willow stood in front of him, rooted to the spot.  Waiting.

"It's Dawn – I wanted to know about the bone-thing because Dawn came back hurt."  He watched her gasp, guilt and horror flashing across her face.  He leaned forward to take her hand; she snatched it away before he got there, unconsciously.

"Oh my god – why?  Did someone hurt her?  Oh god – Buffy."  The beer slipped from her fingers, thudding on the carpet.  She paid no attention, too wrapped up in the possibilities flashing through her mind.

"No!  Will, Will, stop!"  He jumped up, grabbed her by the shoulders.  He would shake her out of this if he had to.  But the anguished expression lifted, and Willow came back.

"I'm all right, okay, okay."  But she clutched his hand with trembling fingers; all her attention was focused on him now.  She bit her lip.  "Can I do anything?  I mean, I only looked at a couple of sites, they're all in your email…"  Her face clouded.

"But Dawn was never fragile before.  The kids with the disease can break up to 100 times – oh."  Her mind was working fast now, jumping from place to place.  "But she wasn't a child.  Xan, I don't know if that makes a difference, but I can look more!"

She was so desperate to help, she needed to help.  Xander watched her as she twisted away, practically running the few paces to her laptop.  He'd never told her the full reasons for anything she'd researched; he couldn't.  But she had to know that she was helping them, just as Buffy had to know where all this mysterious information came from.  But they pretended for such different reasons.

"Willow, we don't think it's the disease anymore; that's what the doctors told us yesterday, but something's changed."

She turned to him again.  "What?  Is it physical?"

He shook his head.  "It's something else."

"Oh."  And she didn't ask.  She turned her head away for a moment, eyes squeezed shut.  One, two, three – counting to a thousand, if need be.  Focusing on numbers.  But she didn't need to go far; at twenty-seven, she turned back.

Xander was perched on the arm of the couch, anxious.  She tried to flash him a reassuring smile, but those didn't come as easily as they used to.

"But she's okay right now?"

Xander nodded again, relived.  "Yeah, she's in bed.  Buffy's with her."

"Good."  

Xander shifted uncomfortably.  There was something still to do, and he thought he knew what the reaction would be.  He cleared his throat.  "Will, I need to ask you something…"

"Yeah, anything!"  But then something tweaked in her head, and she wondered aloud: "How did she get home?"

"Spike brought her."

Willow's eyes flashed black, and it happened.

Xander watched as his best friend crumpled to the ground, her elbow striking the desktop loudly.  He knew what had happened; he'd seen it too often to mistake it.  She never meant to; he knew that too.  But no matter how hard he tried to avoid it, no matter how carefully he watched his words – there would be that one phrase or word or movement that sent her mind down a forbidden path.  

The path strewn with spells and magic, filled with dangerous herbs and ancient runes.  And she would rush along that path in her mind, thrilling at the draw, compelled by the power it held.  Sweep along in an ecstasy of energy, a thrill that set every nerve on fire.

Only to slam against the burned-out patch, a scorched wasteland she couldn't pass, which nothing could heal.  The ravaged place in her brain that had died when her own terrible power backlashed, when she'd reined in the flow of tainted magic, drawn it back into herself.  It struck her forcefully, a blow to her psyche, a painful piercing into her mind.  Robbing her of reason and body and sense, sending her to the floor again.

Xander rose from the couch heavily, his question unasked.  He'd hoped to avoid it, hoped to keep her whole.  But here she lay, once again, splayed out on the carpet of her tiny apartment of the assisted-living facility.  The prison of her mind catching her once more, bodily shutting her down every time her thoughts strayed. 

"You know," he said as he gathered the girl up and carried her to her bed.  "This never stops being scary.  Scary because I'm afraid you've hurt yourself this time," he whispered as he laid her down, smoothing her brow.  His voice was sad, tired.  "And scary because I don't want to know what the hell you were thinking of to set you off."

Buffy paused at the door of her room, mug of cocoa held still.

Dawn was buried under a pile of covers in her usual sleeping position – dead center of the bed.  It was all too familiar to Buffy, who remembered countless family vacations when she'd been shoved out of the hotel double by a fully asleep Dawn.  But Spike probably didn't know about it; thin though he was, he was hard-pressed to find room for himself next to the fidgety teenager.  She smiled.

He, of course, had heard her coming.  He was propped against the headboard; his eyes had been on Dawn when Buffy arrived, but now he was looking straight at her.  He'd move if she wanted… but she didn't want him to.  She walked to the dresser and put down the steaming mug.  No use in waking Dawn up if she was asleep.

"Giles?"  He spoke low, a not-quite-whisper that seemed to reverberate in his chest forever.  She walked to the other side of the bed, leaving Dawn between them.

"Researching."  She shrugged – what else?  He chuckled faintly and closed his eyes, tilting his head back against the wall.

So he felt, rather than saw, Buffy climb into the bed.  She salvaged a bit of sheet from Dawn's mummified state and gently eased herself onto the remaining chunk of mattress.  Dawn murmured a little in her sleep and twisted, edging towards her sister's body.

Spike's hand was still on the pillow above Dawn's head; the fingers that brushed the back sent sparking electricity through him, and he opened his eyes again.  

Buffy met his gaze evenly.  Her head on the pillow, her sister curled close, she allowed the tips of her fingers to linger on his wrist.

Then she closed her eyes, Dawn shifted one last time, and Spike felt the shower of fiery sparks fall to earth, kindling an entirely different sort of blaze.  Warm and gentle, tingling as it spread through his limbs, unknotting his tense muscles and tired mind.  And before he knew what was happening, he drifted into the only peaceful sleep he'd ever known.

TBC


	23. Covers of Dark

***

Midnight thrummed in his veins.  He's lost it for a while during his Sunnydale years; the days had been too dark, or maybe the nights had been brighter... Either way, it had all blended together into a dusky time when midnight lost its meaning.  The dead of night had nothing on the thrill, the tremor that coursed through him when Buffy was near.

So it was a little confusing, when the energy caused him to shock awake, to have his eyes fly open and see the sleeping forms of Buffy and Dawn coiled tight next to him.

He lay still for a moment, just watching them breathe.  Dawn, ever the awkward sleeper, had managed to maneuver herself into a diagonal position, her toes nudging Spike's shins and her head resting just beneath Buffy's chin.  He smiled slowly.  Buffy's hand had curved slightly, palm cupped protectively above Dawn's head, but now holding Spike's fingers tight-laced between her own.  He held his breath, savoring the sight.

But there were things to do, and the charge in his body wouldn't let him forget.  Quietly, he slipped off the bed, trying not to move his hand from Buffy's; it was a contact too sweet to waste.  Dawn made a small noise as her feet were momentarily exposed to the chill air; Spike covered them again, and she settled.

"Going somewhere?"

Oh, her eyes were open now; deeply green, over-bright from sleep, but steady.  And, as usual, demanding.

"Out for a bit," he murmured.  His instinct was to keep her hand, to press her fingers lightly between his own – but he drew back, self-conscious, and she didn't seem to notice the absence of his touch.

"To take the night air, or something more..." She raised an eyebrow sarcastically.  "Athletic?"  But only her voice was slow – the rest of her was moving swiftly, sliding out from under the covers, careful not to disturb Dawn.

"I can take care of this, Buffy – it's not any of your concern."  He tried to make his voice hard, final.  Then he remembered how well Buffy took to that tone.

"Oh, that's going to work," she snorted.  Her eyes glittered briefly.  "I know what you have to do, but last time she got hurt. And there's no way that she's more your concern than mine, Spike."

A voice drifted out from the bedclothes.  "'She' is awake – just so you guys don't think I'm being sneaky."  Buffy made a face and gestured towards the bed, though he didn't quite know what her pointed look was meant to imply.

"Right, Dawn, thanks."  Oh, well, this was a right cock-up.  He scowled, scrubbing his hands through his hair, trying to think of something to say.  It had been such a simple task in his head, and now...

"Now, are we going to take care of it, or are we going to chat?  'Cause I kinda want Dawn to go back to sleep, and if we start chatting, she's just going to join in, and then no one can shut her up..."

"HEY!"

Too late for subterfuge, it seemed.  Spike dropped his hands and shrugged.  "And you suggest?" 

She flashed him a brief smile.  "We get Dawn onto the futon in the training room," she mused, ignoring the muffled protest from the bed, "I gear up, and then we head into town.  Sound good to you?"

The night was young, the moon was bright, and she was coming with him.  "Good as any."

"Then let's go."

Books littered the floor of his flat, lying open in a complicated system that would make sense to no one but him.  It was a usual state for his flat.  Some things had changed, though.  Out of sheer necessity, he'd purchased a hands-free set for his mobile at the local Carphone Warehouse, and though it was currently chafing his ear he had to admit that it had its uses.  Now, for instance, as he made his hundredth phone call of the night and was still able to fix a cup of tea.

He cast an eye over the book stacks blearily, slightly disdainfully, before looking back to the view from his flat kitchen.  Neat stone houses jutted up against the brightening sky, their neat little walled gardens set out behind; he found himself focusing on a lacy top on a washline as it snapped in the early morning breeze.  A light rain was misting, promising to turn into a downpour any moment now, and then the shirt would be sodden again.  

He missed tumble dryers.

"And you're certain they've enough experience?"  Giles repeated, rubbing at his eyes.

"Rupert, they're trained.  I know you've managed to get your hands on the roster somehow, which is something to be discussed later," the man replied, a hint of warning in his tone, "But as you're already aware of the team, you might as well use them.  Young, yes, but trained.  Besides, they're the only ones available on such short notice without alerting the Council."

"Theodore, you do realize how important this is, don't you?  You do realize that her sister is the only family Buffy has in her life right now..."  Giles could feel the tension of the past six hours rasping in his voice.  He sighed.

"And you realize, Rupert, that this is your best chance?"  

He did, honestly, somewhere.  He couldn't bring himself to say it aloud, but he knew.  Every book he looked through, every phone call he made – all roads led to this certain point, and he didn't have the time to fuss.

"I realize you're worried," Theodore continued, "But I must remind you – I'm not entirely certain that the Council aren't already aware of developments."

"Theo - "

"No, you MUST listen, as you don't seem to understand!  Though she may be a Slayer, she hasn't been 'their' Slayer for a bloody long time!  And thus, she has behaved erratically, usually on behalf of the Key she calls her sister..."

Giles stopped him cold.  "Who IS her sister, Deane.  That is not in question."

But Theo wasn't silenced.  "For you?  No.  And obviously not for her either.  But Rupert, she was willing to trade the world for her sister's life.  It's not a thing the Council would be precisely comfortable with on a regular basis, and you must take their attitude into consideration."  The man's voice turned urgent, thick.  

"Rupert, they haven't sent a wetworks team to Sunnydale precisely because they can't afford to alienate the Slayer.  But if the fates align just so and the Key happens to disappear because of it?  I can't see Travers getting too worked up about it.  For the sake of perspective, Rupert, keep that in mind."

Giles drained his mug grimly. "All right.  Send them in."

"Smelly."  

Dawn scuffed her heel against the floor of the training room petulantly, then immediately regretted the action as her ankle crackled.  She cast a jaundiced eye around her; technically, she realized that Buffy wanted her down here because it was the safest room in the house, and she couldn't really object to the reasoning.  Reinforced windows and door, enough weapons to keep anyone safe for a good long time, the entire place warded, bewitched, whatever... 

That really didn't take away from the fact that the two main uses for this room were sweating and doing laundry.  

"Smells like feet, Buffy," she muttered irritably.  "Not PineSol, not air freshener, it smells.  Like.  FEET."  The sound of her voice echoed through the space, which oddly set her more at ease.  

At least Buffy and Spike had had the good sense to bring all of the blankets down with them when she sent them for the portable phone and the gummi bears.  She swathed herself in her comforter, burying her face in the fabric, and then breaking into a huge grin as she recognized the vampire's distinctive smell.  Spike had stayed, and then Buffy had come in, and everything might just end up not-horribly.  She edged further onto the futon, smiling foolishly.

She wasn't particularly surprised when the phone rang in her hand.  She even had an answer ready:  "Sal's Pizza, we locked the door and promise not to open it until you get home so stop worrying so much!"

Of course, the response she got was a little more unexpected.

"Giles!"

The streetlamp outside the window winked on, suddenly casting silhouettes against the blinds, softened and hazy pictures.  Head propped against his hand, Xander watched the familiar shapes dance in the breeze, the boughs crossing and uncrossing fitfully.  His mind idly associated them with images, as though looking for meaning in clouds on a sunny day: crossbow; the dogswood tree by Meadowlark Cemetery; the crease in Giles' forehead; a tentacle-vine.  He smirked a little where he lay.  "Just can't leave the job behind," he muttered ruefully.

His voice sounded loud in the room, and he winced a little.  Next to him on the bed, Willow shifted closer to him, her eyes still shut tight in sleep.  He pulled the quilt up further, carefully covering her tightly-clenched fists, trying to ease the blanket between the sharp point of her chin and her shoulders.  His throat tightened; even in sleep, her entire being recoiled from the world.  Then again, most of her world had rejected her; this was no simple paranoia.

He'd woken abruptly, though not unexpectedly; this far out in the country, the silence could be deafening, and he often jerked awake with his heart pounding.  Something about utter silence unnerved him, and every night he spent in Willow's apartment promised this sort of interrupted sleep.  Sometimes he welcomed consciousness, when memory forced dreams from him.

The dreams in this room were never good.  Especially not for her.

She whimpered, a slight, small sound that barely escaped her throat, her face taking on a plaintive cast. God, if it could be this bad in her sleep.... Xander scooted further under the covers, and she responded immediately by curving against him, her forehead burrowed against his shoulder as though she could crawl inside, and he wished again that he could be her shelter forever.

He welcomed the small heat of her and hesitantly arranged his arms: one reaching up towards the headboard, the other hovering above his chest.  She responded instantly, fitting herself to him like a jigsaw, her eyes still clamped tightly closed.  He drew his arm down, a firm pressure that crossed her back and ended at her waist, a gentle play of palm and fingers brought lightly against the natural curve of her hip.  And then, finally, she relaxed, melted; her breaths evened and the tension left her limbs, a ragdoll against his cautious pose.  

He knew the pattern of her seizures now.  He traced a finger along the fine lines that had so recently, so prematurely formed at the corners of her eyes, his gaze lingered on her chapped and bitten lips.  She'd be waking up soon, and then she'd shut all of it away again; Willow didn't believe she deserved sympathy or pity, and wouldn't respond to it if offered.  He pulled her closer, felt the beat of her heart against her chest, let the feeling linger.

Here, in this otherworldly twilight, she craved his touch and love and acceptance.  And here, he was finally free to give it to her.

TBC


	24. Throughway

***

"She'll be all right in there."

Spike said it firmly, as though convincing himself of the fact, but his eyes strayed tellingly towards the plain door leading down to the basement.

Buffy continued rummaging through the closet, her voice echoing back to him in the kitchen.  "Yeah, it's pretty much the safest place on the planet – you should have seen all the defensive crap Xander built in structurally."  Spike's lips thinned quickly at the man's name, but he bit back any jibe.  "Besides, we installed cable."

"Need a hand?"

"No."  She emerged again, an odd leather holster dangling from her hand.  She'd already changed into clothes she could hunt in: the fabrics stretched easily over her slender frame, sensible choices, chocolate brown, black, cream at her throat.  Very sensible, if you discounted the boots, of course; sturdy but stylish and sporting a wicked heel, they disappeared under the hem of her pants and didn't look like they ended until her knee.  She'd always had a weakness for footwear.

It wouldn't do to keep staring at her legs, though.  

"Haven't seen that before," he said, gesturing towards the holster.

Buffy produced a matching leather sheath and slid it expertly into the leather loops, twisting the thongs in intricate patterns that bound the sheath and holster together.  She spoke as she worked, still crouched low.  "No, you wouldn't have – it's Marcus's."

The name sounded familiar, but it took a moment to register.  "Oh, Anya's bloke."

Buffy nodded, already busy belting the sheath to her thigh.  "He sails, and he had one of these lying around."  She straightened again and glanced up, smiling distractedly.  "It looked fun, so I tried it out.  Nifty, hunh?"

Spike watched her as she flipped a wicked-looking blade around her nimble fingers, the metal flashing in the moonlight.  She kept her eyes on the spinning knife, obviously delighted with her new toy, whipping it into the sheath with perfect precision.  Then her gaze flicked up to him belatedly, her smile faded, and everything was awkward again.

"Nifty," he agreed, and she flushed a little, her mouth working as she tried to decide whether or not he was making fun.  But he didn't follow up, just ducked his head and checked on the set of stakes she'd handed to him.  She relaxed, and the odd tingle their brief standoff had sparked died away again.

She straightened her jacket and picked up the crossbow leaning against the doorjamb.  In one easy motion she slung it over her shoulder where it settled neatly into a worn groove in her jacket.  "If you're ready, we should get moving."    

He didn't protest; but as he walked by the basement door, he brushed his palm against the reinforced wood.  Not too obvious, not too showy – just a slight pressure of skin on surface, almost like he needed the contact for balance as he walked out of the Summers home.  But Spike was never that clumsy, and would never lose his footing while walking across the kitchen floor.  He didn't need that kind of balance.

Behind him, Buffy saw the gesture and wondered at it.  But it made her heart a little lighter, and as she passed, she allowed her own fingers to trail across the place his hand had rested.

"But what if he doesn't come?"

Kane lounged against the alley wall, one leg pulled up beneath him.  He was going for James Dean, Rick guessed, but missing by a mile.  Kane simply couldn't contain his excitement: his eyes glittered, his head snapped towards every noise, practically bubbling with glee.  Rick was scared out of his mind; Kane was just plain off his head.

"He'll come, he'll come..."  Kane pushed away from the wall and surveyed the scene he'd set so carefully.  It hadn't taken long to set up; Kane's mind worked in unfamiliar ways, something he believed was an asset.  He'd spent long days fantasizing about standoffs like this: a subtle trap, carefully sprung, that would see his opponent writhing in the dirt in moments.  But not dusting in the dirt, he chuckled to himself.  No – Spike really was a master, and there would be days, weeks, perhaps even months to learn from him.

And to torture him, of course.  But that was just the icing on the cake.

"Check on the guys," he muttered, and watched as Rick jumped at the chance to get away.

He wasn't an idiot.  Kane knew that his crew didn't like him.  But more importantly?  They feared him, and with good reason.  And a certain traitorous little bastard would soon reinforce that important lesson.

Watching Rick's swift retreat he mused on the different ways he could make an example of the boy – a variation on Chinese water torture was a definite possibility.  He remembered hearing a lot about that one as a kid.  Using consecrated water, obviously, and with any luck he'd manage to burn a way through to the kid's brain before he lost consciousness.  Medical books were always talking about how prodding at various parts of the brain provoked odd reactions in the patient.  He'd been dying to try that one out; removing sections of a conscious patient's brain would prove just as interesting.  And a vampire at that!  He smiled, musing.  Do vampire brains grow back?  Well, it would have to be a thorough study.

He'd never seen a real brain before.  And obviously, if the water didn't do the trick, there were always drills.

But first, he'd deal with Spike.  He chafed his hands against each other, adrenaline running high.  It was getting kind of chilly out.  That leather jacket would do quite nicely.

Dawn sat back and stared at the wall.  Buffy might try to kill her, and there might be some spackling involved, but she'd managed to write down all of the information Giles was giving her.  It wasn't exactly her fault that she was locked in a room with no paper, and it certainly wasn't her fault that the only writing utensil she'd been able to find was one of Buffy's eyeliner pencils.  She set the ruined pencil down on the floor with a pang of guilt.  But "Cleopatra Kohl" wasn't 'in' right now anyhow.  Right? Whatever.  She squinted at the notes scrawled on the white paint.

"So, the two people who might come... I let them in?"  Dawn reiterated.  She'd taken the notes, sure, but they weren't exactly making a whole lot of sense right now.  She shut her eyes and leaned back against the futon, taking a page from Buffy's book.  Listen to Giles, and he'll make it all okay.

"Yes, Dawn.  Of course, if you're uncomfortable with that, or if you'd prefer to..."  His voice trailed off a little.  There weren't any other options for him to offer.

"No, I'm good.  But run me through this one more time." She stared into the distance, arranging her thoughts.  "Okay.  So, tell me if I screwed any of this up, but: two people will be here sometime early in the morning."  

"Correct."

"And they might have weird stuff with them, but as long as they say they're Swiss..."  

"Swede," Giles interrupted her hastily.  "It's a root vegetable, not completely unlike a turnip."

Dawn let a brief silence linger as she processed that.  "Right, that one – as long as they speak of the random vegetable, then carte blanche?"

"In a word, yes.  But Dawn, if you're at all unable to do this, I can certainly tell them to come a little later.  Perhaps it would be better if we waited until Buffy got home.... And where is she, if I may ask?"

"Out.  With Spike.  I think they're killing something."  Dawn delicately bit the head off of a green gummi bear and replaced it with a red one.  Much better.

"Excellent.  Excellent..." Giles' voice trailed off slightly, and Dawn paused.

"Giles?"  Her voice sounded very young, even in her own ears.  She swallowed.  "Isn't everything going to be okay?"

"I hope so, Dawn.  Oh, I do hope so."

"I would have done this alone, you know."

They'd been walking side by side in total silence as they approached the main street, but he had to say it.  Her reaction at the house hadn't been unexpected, but he felt uncomfortable not mentioning it.  He didn't want to take her company for granted.

Buffy shrugged.  "I know – but this Kane guy messed you up pretty badly last time you saw him."  She hesitated, realizing how critical that might sound.  

"Not that I think you can't deal with it – I'm sure you're good with that kind of stuff, you've probably been practicing..."

He sighed.  "Buffy..."

"But we might need you soon.  Dawn's got this thing, and what if the Kane guy is actually after her? And besides, strength in numbers."  She shifted awkwardly.

"Oh," he said quietly.  "I'm glad you came."

"Good."

 They walked on, the buildings beginning to get closer together as they neared the center of Sunnydale.  It had been built up a little in the past two years – some of the facades had been updated, a level or two added on some of more imposing buildings.  Spike thought that he knew the town by night, but tonight?  New shadows cast their lengths across the tarmac, reached into familiar corners and darkened them eerily.  

It made him edgy.

"Buffy, I don't really think we'll find him here."

"Why not?"

He fidgeted.  "Maybe... maybe I mean we shouldn't find him here."

"And now you're making no sense."  She had stopped in the middle of the road and now watched him, her weight shifted easily onto one foot.  "I'm not the one who started heading in this direction, you did – I'm just along for the ride."

She was right.  He'd unintentionally headed straight for the alley where he'd first encountered that bleached bastard.  "Right," he muttered, reluctance still pulling at him. It wasn't that he thought Buffy couldn't handle it, but – well, Kane wasn't the kind of guy he wanted to even LOOK at Buffy or Dawn.  Bringing Buffy to him?  That thought just made him ill.

But she was determined, and better yet, she was right.  Better to get rid of him now, rather than wait for him to find them.  "Right..."

Buffy sighed.  "Why don't we just wander?  We can hit the sewers later, maybe if you think of something else we'll head there too.  That okay?"

The impatience was audible in her voice, though she was trying to dampen it; she waited only until Spike nodded his assent, and then began an irritable charge down the nearest alley.  

And Spike followed.  Partially because he didn't have a choice; partially because the only choice that mattered was to be with her.

The town had been a wash, as had the house with the rotted corpse.  On Buffy's suggestion they had also prowled through the school and the larger graveyards, a frenzied pace that ate up the great distances quickly.  Clambering through the warehouses by the docks, though, had proven more time-consuming, and three hours of intensive searching had begun to wear.  

Until they reached the alley in back of the fisheries, where they both froze in perfect unison.

It wasn't one particular thing that made them stop; a combination of overwhelming silence, the sensation that something was near, perhaps an unusual scent.  But as they both stopped short, they knew two things for certain: the alleyway was dangerous, and the dock they paused on was only marginally less so.

Spike whispered low, barely enunciating.  "We should stay here for a bit."

"Yes," she replied, eyes darting.  "Yes we should."  Neither moved a muscle.

They didn't have long to wait.  Apparently, Kane had a penchant for dramatic entrances.  He stepped out of a shadow, lingering beneath a streetlight at the alley's other end.  Buffy squinted briefly, then suddenly realized who the young vampire was mimicking.  

"You've got a fan," she muttered, and Spike barked a short laugh.

"Oh – lucky, lucky me."

 A chain rattled somewhere in the gloom.  "You weren't supposed to go anywhere, Master-man."  Kane's voice managed to echo against the warehouse siding ominously in a way he probably thought effective.  

Buffy smiled brilliantly at the gambit.  So there would be banter?  Well, banter was her forte.

"Yeah, he doesn't really follow orders.  Pain in the ass, I know.  So, want to make something of it?" she perked.

Kane ignored her, speaking to Spike again.  "Too bad you brought the bitch.  Kind of screws up the whole plan, but hey – I can be flexible."  He finally focused on Buffy.  "Or I could go hang out with her dead mom for a while.  Maybe I could do a little digging, a little breaking and entering.  Don't humans mummify after a couple of years?  Do you think there'll still be maggots in there?"

Spike felt her stiffen at the mention of Joyce, and stepped forward.  "Weary of the games, boy.  Why not come on out here, try giving something that's not your mouth a workout."

He laughed.  "Oh, but it's so much nicer in here.  The aroma, for one."  Kane took an exaggerated breath of fishy brine, letting it out in a gust.  "I'm sure the maggot mummy's girl would like it.  I chose it special and all."  His gaze lingered on Buffy, slimy, proprietary, and Spike began to bristle.

But Buffy had recovered fast; now she had anger fueling her tongue.  "And you know what?  The only reason I'm not waltzing on in and ripping your stupid little ambush to shreds is because I happen to like this outfit and this alley?  Dirty."  She paused, looking around.  "I mean, dirty even for an alley.  Why don't you evil types ever want to fight in, oh, I don't know... a doctor's office?  Maybe a shower room?  You know, somewhere that's seen cleaning supplies in the last century..."

Kane sighed.  "You're getting a little boring, Slayer."

She snorted.  "Yeah, I think so, too.  But we're at a bit of a stalemate, 'cause I'm not going to come in there and get you, and you're too busy hiding behind, oh..." She cocked her head to the side, listening intently.  "Six unbelievably noisy henchmen who are really, really bad at hiding."  She smirked a little and waved towards one of the windows on the upper stories.  She could feel Spike shifting behind her, assessing the situation and settling into position, but she rambled on, waiting for the right moment.  "Hi there!"  A huddled shadow on the fire escape shifted self-consciously, and Buffy chuckled.

"God – some of them are so new, they're still breathing.  You don't need to do that anymore, you know," she directed towards the uncertain henchman.  "Try it!  Just let it go, it's real easy...."

Spike suddenly tensed behind her, and she knew that time was up.  "Then again," she finished, "It's going to be a kinda moot point in a couple of seconds, so on second thought?  Breathe away."

His hearing had picked up the sound before she had, obviously.  A metallic click that registered just a moment after Spike made a lightening-fast throw into a dark corner, a sound that made her heart leap into her throat.  Metal on metal, a sound she could never forget.

She couldn't take her eyes off Kane, though.  His smile was fevered, taunting, over-eager, and she wouldn't give him an opening to make her weak.  So she stood, taut to the point of shaking, as Spike hauled the shrieking minion out of the darkness to lay at her feet.

"Got it."  Spike lifted a revolver to her eye level, held flat out on his palm; she noticed that the hammer was cocked.

Wordlessly, Buffy took the gun, her eyes never leaving Kane.  She didn't know how to unload a gun, but she didn't have to.  With deliberate precision, she pinched her fingers against the end of the barrel.  The length crimped, buckled under the force of her grip, the perfect cylinder flattening to ruin.  She let it clatter to the ground, just a useless hunk of gunpowder and metal, and turned back to their quivering captive.

He was a pitiful sight.  The vamp was young and stupid, too focused on the pain of the stake in his gut to process the tableau before him.  He keened, the wail of someone who's never had a serious injury, of someone who hasn't learned stoicism.  He reached towards his leader plaintively, and Buffy saw a glimmer of something cross Kane's face.  His expression slackened, his eyes grew bright, and he came as close to flushing as she'd ever seen a vampire.  It struck her as a curious response.

And Buffy nearly retched as she realized what he was feeling.  

He was waiting for the kill.  There was an air of something disturbing about him, an aura of anticipation that verged on sexual.  Her hands instantly felt oily, slick from touching something that was 'his', tainted.  It was the same way she felt when reading about pedophiles or rapists... Spike touched her side briefly and she almost shied away, but controlled her reaction.  She didn't want to be that way anymore.

This would have to be quick; any thought of drawing it out, using the vamp to get Kane... it was completely repellant now.  She caught Spike's eye and he nodded, holding the henchman fast.  The babbled shrieks increased in intensity as the vamp seemed to register his predicament, and Buffy ducked down to meet his eye.

"We don't do guns here," she breathed into his ear, and quickly, precisely, yanked the stake from his stomach and guided it to his heart.

The dust had barely settled before Kane sauntered forward again, forcing nonchalance.  "How... After-School Special," he drawled, an ugly sound that marred his effort to act casual.  He twitched irritably; Buffy got the distinct impression that he didn't resent the dusting as much as he did the speed of it.

"I do what I can," she replied.  Her hand slid down to the knife on her thigh, "But now I'm going to do better."

And in an instant, all hell broke loose.

TBC


	25. Sounds and Fury

*  
  
  
  
  
  
The phone vibrated quietly, a low buzz that could've been mistaken for the central heating to one unused to it. The sound hummed from underneath the bed, just beyond the drape of the comforter, exactly where he put it every night in his own room.  
  
He answered it before the second ring.  
  
"Xander?"  
  
"Yes." He hadn't been asleep - not really. But the last traces of sleep were chased off by Dawn's voice as it echoed down the line. She sounded somehow smaller, and his mind's eye immediately threw up an image of her, curled up in a corner, blackened eyes wide and frightened. He slipped off of the bed quickly, leaving Willow still curled and sleeping, speaking low.  
  
"Dawn - are you okay? It's..." he caught a glimpse of the kitchen clock as he went into the living room, "...late. Where's Buffy?"  
  
"She and Spike are out on patrol, and they're not the problem." She got the words out quickly, but could hear Xander's breath catch anyways. "Giles called."  
  
The thought of Buffy patrolling with Spike was one thing; but news from Giles? Sounded like a time for action. "Oh! Uh, okay... Does he know what's going on?" It was hard to find his keys in the darkness - he decided to put on his shoes, worry about the keys later.  
  
Dawn sighed. "Not exactly - but he has found someone to help! Two people, actually, and they're coming in the morning, and I'm really, really sorry to call you while you're at Willow's, but I'd kind of like you around, if that's all right?"  
  
Her matter-of-fact tone stopped him in his tracks, one boot half-laced. "You - you know where I am?"  
  
"Yeah, and I think it's good. Being alone is..." Suddenly, Xander heard Dawn gasp; somewhere in the background there was noise, a thudding, a shuffling sound - then quiet.  
  
"...creepy," Dawn finished. But now her voice was hushed and hollow, watchful.  
  
Xander froze where sat on the couch, staring at the carpet fixedly. "Where are you, Dawn." His mind raced, the blueprints of the Summers house flashing through his head.  
  
"Basement." Hardly more than a breath, hardly escaping her mouth. And frightened.  
  
Logically, he knew it was the safest place for her to be. He'd built it himself, a veritable fortress - but those sounds. They made him think of the small windows at ground level through which someone could peer, and that was enough to throw him into a panic. Imagining someone looking at Dawn, watching her, cataloguing her injuries. Planning...  
  
"Dawn, there's a corner." His mind raced. "It's over near the punching bag. Go sit in that corner, as wedged tight as you can against the wall. Bring a blanket or something, pile it up on top of you. Are you hearing me? Dawn?"  
  
"Yes." Again, the shortest answer possible, barely audible. But he could hear her moving, the rustle of her clothes as they rasped against the rough futon cover.  
  
"Dawn - I'm on my way right now, I can be there..." He would break every law he had to. "I'll be there as soon as I can."  
  
More rustling, then the sleek sound of cotton on cement as she began to crawl across the floor. "Yeah."  
  
"I'm getting my keys now, honey - just keep moving, stay low..." Xander turned, eyes wildly raking every surface, every cushion, until a sharp glittering in the bedroom doorway caught his eye.  
  
Willow. Xander felt as though he had suddenly been plunged into cold water, a chill that ran through his very veins. In the moonlight her face was drawn and pale, a frightening alabaster shade eerily reminiscent of Drucilla's tone. She was fully dressed - a brown corduroy skirt that brushed the ground, a pink sweater that clung tight to her too-thin form. Both were crumpled, as though snatched from the floor in haste, and her hair was matted and wild.  
  
But from her fingers dangled his keys, catching the light from the streetlamp as they swayed. In her hands. Not in his.  
  
For a moment, he dreaded her. Only for a moment, but he had never been good at masking his emotions - and in the instant he glanced at her face, she recognized his expression. Her inquisitive, worried look vanished, replaced by a grief so deep... It hurt him to look at her, hurt to even imagine how she could feel that much anguish and still live. But somehow she did, and somehow she forgave him for his suspicion, accepted it as her due. And even as her oldest, dearest friend tried to chase away his mistrust and fear, she hid her hurt deep inside and understood.  
  
"Here," she whispered, unconsciously mimicking his volume. She padded over to him and pressed the keys into his hand gently, then withdrew again. Xander's stomach lurched - she tried so hard, never asked for anything, and how did he repay that kind of loyalty?  
  
"Willow..." he said, hoarsely. She was only a couple of feet away, but she didn't step closer at the sound of her name. Her hand came up in a warding- off gesture, palm pushing the nothingness away, trying to forget.  
  
"Willow?" Dawn's whisper startled him; he'd totally forgotten about the phone, distracted by his own betrayal. And then another word, tagged onto the last with a plaintive twist: "Willow... please?"  
  
"It's Dawn." She'd turned back to her bedroom, probably hoping to sleep it away, to count this moment as just another nightmare; but at this she stopped still. She didn't turn. She waited.  
  
"Willow, Dawn's alone in the house, in the basement... there's something going on, I need to get back there." He stood, brought the phone to her, touched her back. "Dawn wants to talk to you, Will."  
  
Willow tried to remember the last time she'd had this dream; the one where her friends called her, needed her, talked to her and said her name. It must've been months ago - she remembered waking up slowly one morning, the leisurely consciousness of someone only just rising from an excellent sleep. She remembered thinking that she must start that research immediately, must work on that project that she and Buffy had talked about so long yesterday, the long conversation that had flowed from business to pleasure, when Buffy had told her "I can't think of anyone else I'd trust with this, Will." And then the red and gold leaves outside the window had parted, letting in a brilliant, blinding flash of sunlight - and she'd realized that it had never happened at all.  
  
She'd felt hollowed-out for days, as though the hope had puffed her up and filled in places she'd managed to forget. And they were now empty, or missing. Just phantom limbs belonging to a half-lived life.  
  
But Xander had brought the phone closer to her ear, and the sounds at the other end shattered through the protective, defensive wall she'd built up. Dawn was breathing too fast, in quick snatches, the kind of breathing that made Willow light-headed even listening to her. And then, in the background.... a horrible, dragging noise. A laugh, quickly stifled. All too close for comfort, and Dawn was all alone.  
  
"Please..." Dawn's pleading whisper made Willow snatch for the phone like a lifeline. Yes, it might just be another dream. But if she could help her friends, even in dreams, she would.  
  
Xander watched as Willow's posture changed; he'd hesitated a moment, wondering if this pressure would be too much. But having taken the chance, he was thrilled to see the way she straightened up, spoke soothingly and quietly, kept up a steady stream of reassurance to the frightened girl cowering in the basement.  
  
"Dawnie, I'll keep talking to you, don't worry. You don't have to say anything, I'll just tell you stories, just listen to me talking, don't pay any attention to anything else, sweetie. Dawn, Xander'll be there soon..." Melodic, hypnotizing, her words chained together in a smooth patter that belied the difficulty Willow now had with stuttering her speech. Reluctantly but urgently, Xander stood and went to the door; the night air shocked a little as the door opened, and he turned to wave goodbye.  
  
Willow fully intended to wave him on, to urge him away. But then a word trickled down the line, hopeful and fearful all at once, a word that fully expected rejection and yet risked the sound anyhow.  
  
"Come?" A pause, ominous in its lack of thudding or scraping. Then, quieter, trembling: "Will - please, Willow, come?"  
  
A mixture of emotions warred on Willow's face as she spoke, but determination ran through them all. Xander saw the change and paused, waiting.  
  
She spoke calmly, promise inherent in her voice.  
  
"We're coming now, Dawn. And we won't let you go, the whole way."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The attacks just wouldn't stop coming.  
  
What had started as a quiet fight - just Buffy, Spike, and a couple of fledglings - had long since escalated into an all-out brawl. Spike blinked away the blood gushing into his eye from a scalp wound and focused on his most threatening opponent, whose parents could very well have been a porcupine and armadillo. The beast's armor was impressive, and he'd been gashed too many times by its quills for his own comfort.  
  
It would've been all right, he reasoned, had it only been the fledges. But he hadn't reckoned on these reserves hiding around the corner, just aching to spring on a weakened Slayer and her out-of-practice sidekick. Because he did have to admit that he was out of practice - two years ago, he might've been able to bowl enough of them over to make an opening for himself and the Slayer, to make for the alcove where Kane had stood and make a night of it. But tonight he was struggling, and after almost an hour, the challengers were still coming in waves.  
  
Buffy was faring no better. If Spike'd been in a chatting mood, he'd've been able to give her the full history of her current opponent: Faceless Eddie leered at her lewdly as he spouted an ongoing commentary of what he planned to do with her body - preferably deceased. The demon may once have been a man, but Buffy couldn't tell what type; his face had long since been ruined by the acidic secretions in his skin, eating raw holes and ulcers all over his form. His eyes were especially gruesome; the acid had chewed away the skin of his eyelids and run deep rivulets into his cheeks, leaving his pale blue corneas glistening at her rimmed with bloodshot veins.  
  
"Buffy - spit!" Spike's shout was roughened from too much exertion, but she wasn't sure that she'd've made much sense of it anyhow.  
  
"What?" she called back in irritation, and then she saw Faceless Eddie do the strangest thing. He reared his head back, made a deep, guttural sound, and...  
  
"EUGH!" A huge gobbet of phlegm landed on her jacket and stuck there, a churning mass of yellowish green that bubbled fiercely. Spike's shout suddenly made sense. She looked to Eddie, outraged. "Did you just hock a loogie at me?"  
  
But the demon only smiled. That strange, slow smile, she thought with dawning realization... And then she was stripping the jacket off frantically, the mucus having already eaten away an enormous patch and not showing any sign of stopping. In her haste, her wrist grazed across one of the bubbles, and pain immediately flashed up her arm, making her catch her breath harshly.  
  
Eddie laughed, and reared back again.  
  
  
  
Spike heaved the armadillo over the railing of the dock, the water splashing up to dash against his boots. The demon vanished beneath the waves in seconds. "See how your sodding armor fares in the water, then," Spike spat, and turned to face the alley again. For once, it seemed, the odds were going to work in his favor - his next opponent was one of the fledglings, gawky and awkward in the shadowed light, and not looking completely thrilled to be facing Spike.  
  
Spike roared a laugh, relief and fury making his voice boom. "Boss sent you to get blooded? Hadn't got anything better to offer, Kane?" The alley offered no response, only gloomy shapes shifting in the dark.  
  
Irked, Spike lunged at the boy - but something was wrong. It took a moment for him to realize that the boy wasn't in gameface, and for one split second he panicked. Was it some sort of trick? He pushed the boy from him and stared, dread and fear straining against the undeniable knowledge, deep in his bones, that this creature was not human anymore. But to harm another human... He couldn't risk it. And in those few seconds of doubt, the boy made his move.  
  
"Spike, I helped you! It's Rick! The keys?" The boy wasn't totally stupid - he kept his voice low, tried to catch Spike's eye to impart the full weight of his words. Spike paused, confused. "No, punch me or something."  
  
Catching on, though still slightly addled by the previous hour's fighting, Spike obeyed, laying the other vampire out on the dock with an eased punch. But he wasn't a fool, either; when the boy's eyes opened moments later, he found Spike kneeling above him, stake poised over his chest.  
  
"What." Spike didn't have the time or the energy for games, and Rick could tell. His words tumbled out quickly.  
  
"Decoy - this is a decoy. Kane got a bunch of demons together, waited for you, but he's gone! He left almost as soon as the fight started - he's not here for you."  
  
Spike grabbed the boy harshly, one eye on the alleyway. "What? Who?"  
  
"It's how he works, breaking you down! He has - projects!" Rick grasped at Spike's shoulder, and an odd expression came over his face. "It's the Slayer's sister he's after, your girl - Dawn."  
  
  
  
TBC 


	26. Headlong

*  
"What?" She couldn't process the words at first - Spike's fingers were digging sharply into the back of her arms as he shook her, and the pressure of each fingertip on already-battered skin was excruciating. He was almost too much to deal with right now, too intense, trying to take all of her attention... From somewhere bitter and small inside her, the word "typical" came to mind. And then she did look past him, saw the ruined heap of Faceless Eddie beginning to lurch to its feet. Would that thing never die?!?  
  
"Dawn! Buffy, we have to leave. NOW." Under any other circumstances, he'd slap at someone's face to get their attention - but not her, not now.  
  
He tried another tack, speaking in a low rumble that charged the air between them, catching her attention by vibration alone. "Kane's gone after Dawn - been gone well on an hour now." Behind him, he could feel the restless energy of the mob, churning, waiting.  
  
Buffy looked at him, irritated and confused. And suddenly, realization kicked in.  
  
"Oh my god." He let go of her immediately and stepped back, never leaving her eyes. Shock, anguish, panic, horror - and then a deep, burning anger that he could practically see as it diffused through her body, finally erupting from her throat, shocking even her.  
  
A raw, wordless, strangled shriek of fury that sounded more animal than human. It echoed around the harbor, bouncing off siding and water and rattling about in the darkest corners. Spike felt, rather than saw the crowd of demons hang back; something about that uncontrolled rage made them reconsider, made them think that this might not be their night.  
  
They seemed to draw away from her as she sprinted past them, a knife sliding through water. Spike followed in her wake, for a moment marveling at the power she could unconsciously wield. But as they ran, not speaking, past houses and storefronts and cemeteries, his mind began to anticipate the scene ahead.  
  
He'd been away from this so long, these midnight panics; the sinking dread in the pit of his stomach felt ungainly and strange, dragging him down as he tried to keep up with the girl. And worse, now - so much worse. Because now he not only feared what might have happened, but he imagined what he might find. Every death he'd ever caused, looped through his head in a hellish marathon. And in every one, Dawn had the starring role, the dramatic death scene, the strangled plea or shuddered breath or moment of terror that made the kill worthwhile....  
  
And a few steps in front of him, Buffy pushed her strained legs to run faster, the wind whipping tears from her eyes.  
Xander's truck screeched into the driveway; Willow could hear the echo of the sound through the phone she kept cradled to her ear.  
  
"Dawn, that was us - we're right outside." Willow went to jump out of the truck, but Xander grabbed onto her arm tight. "What? What's wrong with you?" she hissed angrily. How could he leave Dawn down there another minute, alone and frightened?  
  
Xander held a finger to his lips and gestured to the phone, then pointed out the windshield. Irritated, Willow followed his gaze.  
  
"Oh."  
  
Some of the windows were broken, at the very least. The front door had been badly gouged, long ugly gashes that dug deep into the wood and looked like wounds in the glare of the headlights. And there was a... basket, or something?  
  
"What? What's wrong?" Dawn's voice shrilled, though she kept her volume low. Willow paused for a moment, considering the situation.  
  
"It's nothing, Dawn - we'll be in in a couple of seconds." Xander was busily fishing around at her feet; finally, he came up with a sort of compacted crossbow.  
  
"Do you want me to come to the basement door, meet you?" Dawn asked, hopeful. It was the first time she'd uttered more than three words at once in the past forty-five minutes. Willow could hear her shifting on the other end of the line, ready to move.  
  
"No, Dawn - you stay right where you are, we're coming to you," Willow replied, then carefully covered the receiver with her palm. "Xander - the sun's almost up, can't we just - go in?"  
  
The withering look she got in return was a new one for her. "Yeah, 'cause we know so many vampires who obey that rule." She recoiled a little at the harshness of his tone, and he sighed. Worse, she flinched when he leaned towards her - he slowly leaned away again, berating himself for being so callous.  
  
"I'll take the bow so you can stay on the phone; take your pick from there, though." He gestured towards the glove compartment briefly before carefully opening his door.  
  
The drawer opened at a touch, and the amount of weaponry packed into one tiny space... "Gosh," Willow breathed, touching the carefully-arranged knives and stakes. Her fingers briefly found a row of small, shiny nubs; she snatched her hand away when she realized they were silver bullets.  
  
Xander watched her, saw her smooth her reaction away. Unerringly, she reached back in and picked up one of the ridged stakes that had always been her standby. She didn't mention the bullets at all, her eyes slid over them as she closed the compartment and slid out of the truck.  
  
It felt... okay, she realized. The balance of the stake in her hand was familiar, almost comfortable. She let out a tiny laugh as Xander came up beside her and faced the damaged house. He looked back through the windshield, and she saw him.  
  
Really saw him. Not the vulnerable kid she'd loved, not the sentimental man who's saved her. He'd changed in the time she'd been gone, and it showed in every line of him. He'd become harder, crueler, more assured. "Older," she whispered to herself.  
  
And he didn't need the twitchy nerd or the lovesick witch. When he looked at her, she felt the faith he had in her was tinged heavily with doubt. He would never say so to her, and that almost made it worse. He needed something from her, badly, and he wasn't sure if she could give it. But he waited for her anyhow, always willing to give her the chance.  
  
Willow opened the door, stepped onto the tarmac, and decided to grow up.  
They were taking so LONG.  
  
Did they realize how much scarier it was to have them approach slowly, creaking the floorboards above her head with every step? Dawn understood the need for caution, but she'd been curled up on the cement floor for almost an hour. Every time she moved some joint cracked or muscle twinged, and the chill was seeping into her back where it was pressed against the wall. And even though Willow kept saying reassuring things, that didn't make it better. She wanted them here, now - she was done being alone and frightened.  
  
She'd had the time to think of all the possibilities for the laughter, the crashing, the scraping sounds: though the wards and construction may have prevented vampires, what about regular human criminals? Buffy had always assured her that most Sunnydale human criminals were kind of eaten by the non-humans before they could get much experience, but... What if one of them knew how to open the door?  
  
"Dawn?" She heard Xander's voice at the same time as his knock, a rapping that resounded in the reinforced door frame. She began to lurch towards the stairs as she heard his keys rattling on that enormous keychain he always carried around. She staggered to her feet, all her body cramping and straining at the effort. "Dawn, I'm unlocking the door, okay?"  
  
"Hurry!" The word slipped out, and then she felt oddly ashamed for the desperation in her voice; her friends were here, they'd take care of it, there was no reason for her to rush them now. But relief overrode all other thought and she edged closer to the foot of the steps, eagerly staring at the deadbolt as it turned in the lock.  
  
And then they were there. Even later, Dawn wouldn't be able to remember the moments between that turning lock and the sensation of Willow folded around her. The corduroy of Willow's skirt felt soothing against her cheek, and the fingers that so carefully tucked her hair behind her ear. She could hear Xander barring the door behind them, then pausing for only a second before taking off his jacket and tucking it around her shaking shoulders. The relief was chasing tension from her in humiliating jitters, making her feel embarrassed, weak.  
  
"I've got you," Willow murmured into her hair, and Dawn sagged. She buried her head in the folds of Willow's sweater, her eyes smarting with tears. Faintly, she heard Willow say something about a basket, about Buffy, and she realized that she was drifting off. She grumbled a little and tried to sit up, but Willow laughed quietly above her and whispered. "It's all right, shhh - rest a little now, we're taking care of everything."  
  
The woman's slim fingers gently drew Dawn's hair back from her brow and smoothed it down, then again, then again, and Dawn was asleep.  
Slayer strength only did so much.  
  
She was able to run miles without stopping. She could tear through walls, kick down metal doors, throw bodies for yards without breaking a sweat. It was ordained. It was a gift. The Slayer was designed to withstand almost anything.  
  
But Slayers were also designed to be tools, human weapons. Cold and calculated, something a Watcher could point and fire and manipulate without qualm. And when she'd broken those rules, Buffy hadn't seen what that could mean.  
  
Dawn. They couldn't understand, the others. She'd surrounded herself with single children, people whose lives were uncluttered by sibling rivalries and loyalties. She could go on forever trying to explain, and they'd never know. They couldn't.  
  
Her heart was trying to leap out of her chest. The thought of Dawn in danger, in pain, in anything... Her blood ran cold, cramping those famous Slayer muscles, fatiguing her, so all she wanted to do was collapse and scream. She wasn't fast enough, she wasn't smart enough, and Dawn could be hurt, could be calling for her...  
  
Her breath came in shattered gasps, furious shudders that racked through her. Her mind was on fire, a burning and dizzying heat that jarred with every step. She would die for her sister, had done and would do again, there was no question. Her ally, her charge, the only person in her world. The one person who meant she wasn't alone. To have Kane close to Dawn, to have Kane even think of her - Buffy's breaths began to sound in her ears as her throat narrowed, the panic rising with every step.  
  
Being a Slayer was nothing. They all thought it should mean something, this mystical gift. But it meant nothing, not at all. She had no immunity from life, and if her sister was gone - Kane might as well rip her heart out.  
TBC 


	27. Turnaround

*

The sky was just starting to change; the sun nowhere to be seen, the moon in hiding, but the entire world seemed to glow from a kind of internal light.  The white house across the road began to get brighter, defining itself starkly against the hedges that crouched against the sidewalk.  Xander was used to this time of day – it was his favorite.  

He'd long since given up on black and white.  They had seemed to be so solid, indestructible – right and wrong, up and down, good and evil, love, hope, death.  And then down had become up, good things went bad, people you loved died and then didn't, and somehow?  Everyone else had adjusted, or expected it, or something.  And he been left behind somewhere, lost in the shuffle.  Because when everything did go to hell, it seemed like he was the only one who felt like he needed to sit down, put his head in his hands, and wait for the world to stop spinning.

Of course, the world never stops spinning. 

Xander looked down at the basket between his feet, then sighed and leaned back against the porch swing.  It swayed a little, with a familiar, comforting creaking sound. It had become a ritual of sorts, sitting on this swing at this hour.  Usually when he was bruised or spattered, which explained the lack of cushions.  He'd veneered the wooden slats as well, to make them easily washable.  A porch swing that you could rinse blood off of easily.  Which, he knew, was a thought that should be wrong.  But in his world, it was just wise.  He felt a headache coming on.

No, this time of day was perfect.  There weren't any shadows, and no sharp edges.  The light came from all around, as though it was terrestrial and not solar after all, sneaking through gardens and wrapping homes with an insulating glow that seemed safe and promising.  What promise, he didn't know – but something good, something helpful.  Something hopeful.

He sighed and rocked, letting the peace of the moment soothe him.  He didn't believe that things always turned out as they were intended.  But this morning, of all mornings, he needed to remember that the world had its moments when it was beautiful and gentle and calm.

Then he heard her coming.

Immediately, Xander thrust himself out of the swing, making it screech angrily against its chains.  Her speed was incredible; in the amount of time it took her to get to the mailbox, he'd only managed to get to the top of the steps.  Instinctively, he held his arms up and out, hands flat towards her.

"Buffy, it's fine!"  The first shout might not have registered, he realized, considering the frantic look on her face as she took in the state of the house's exterior.  Xander gamely stepped directly between the oncoming Slayer and the door before trying again.

"Dawn's fine, everything's fine, they didn't get in!"  The combination of Xander's deliberate obstruction and the mention of her sister's name brought Buffy up short.  She grabbed his arms desperately, to either throw him aside or hold him still, he didn't know.  But the sharp shocks of pain that arrowed through his shoulders nearly blinded him, and he let out a loud groan as he felt muscle and sinew crushing against bone.  She was going to break his arms, he realized – and she had lost control.  His vision went black.

"Buffy!"  At once, the pain was abruptly gone; Xander cleared the stars from his eyes just in time to see Spike beside him, facing the Slayer, the girl's wrists imprisoned in his hands.  Spike's expression was shocked, or reprimanding, maybe – but whatever unspoken communication passed between the two, Buffy calmed.  And then she shook off his grasp, and Spike stepped back again.  Watchful, but not interfering.

"Are you okay?  I'm sorry..." she started, but Xander could see her eyes flicking towards the door as she spoke.  He shook his arms out quickly, feeling the familiar dull ache of massive bruising.  

"Don't worry about it, Buff – and Dawn's fine, she was all safe and locked in when we got here." He saw Spike's head tilt slightly at the plural, but he continued.  "She says there were noises outside, she got freaked out, we were on the phone the entire way here.  She's fine.  But," he quickly added as Buffy tried to sidestep, "there's more."

"You said she wasn't hurt," Buffy began warningly.

"And she's not."  Xander hesitated before continuing.  "But there's more going on here."  Suddenly, he jolted.  "Wait – why are you here?  Like this?  How did you even know something was happening?"

Buffy's face hardened.  "In a roundabout way, Kane.  That guy who went after Spike."  

"Riiiiight...."  Xander looked to Spike, but the vampire's focus had drifted.  His expression was suspicious as he approached the swing, though he was trying not to be conspicuous.  Briefly, he leaned towards the basket, then rocked backwards again with his eyes closed.  He spoke quietly, his voice rough.

"And this?"  He gestured at the ground, his eyes locked on Xander's.  

"That's what I needed to tell you about," Xander explained, turning to Buffy.  "It's..."

"It's something we can handle, for now," Spike interrupted.  His posture had changed; far from inconspicuous, he was now ramrod-straight, almost magnetic to the eye.  Xander felt resentment building in his gut, tried to ignore it.  The other man gave him an inscrutable look before continuing.  "You and I can talk about this situation, Buffy can check on her sister for a bit.  Works out all round?"

Xander nodded and, chameleonlike, Spike suddenly relaxed again.  As though he hadn't a care in the world.  Strange, strange man.

"Are you sure?"  Buffy's tone was hopeful, and Xander reluctantly realized that Spike's solution was a good one.  She wouldn't be rational until she'd talked to Dawn, seen her intact.  

Her eyes shifted to Spike, who shrugged.  The smile she turned on Xander was brilliant.  "Thank you," she whispered, and disappeared into the house.

Spike coughed, a little awkwardly.  "Your arms all right?"

"I'm used to it."

"Fair enough."  

The basket lay half-under the swing.  From this distance, Xander supposed, it could almost look like someone was going on a picnic.  The edge of a front-yard flag was folded coyly over the top, and it flapped a little in the breeze.  It didn't look out of the ordinary at all.

"You could smell it, couldn't you?"  That particular talent of Spike's still made Xander a little queasy.  

Spike just nodded.  "You look inside yet?"

"Yeah."  Xander walked over to the basket and picked it up by the handle.  It had no heft at all; the contents barely shifted inside.  He placed it on the banister and swallowed.  "There's going to me more of this, somewhere."

"Right," Spike replied absently, and peeled back the top layer of fabric.

At first, there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the pieces within the basket.  A huge hank of hair, long and brown.  It might have been smooth once, but now, matted with gore and dirt, it hung in limp tangles from what could only be an enormous segment of scalp.  The strands trailed messily across two off-white lumps; Xander waited as Spike prodded at one, and winced when it rolled over, revealing a perfect, beautiful, green-blue eye. 

"Ruined the other one," Spike commented absently as he moved to the other orb, which had been badly damaged and was oozing.  But just in case, he turned it over.  "Matching color – same owner, I'd wager."

"Dawn's color," Xander supplied.  Spike nodded grimly, and Xander continued.  "The hair's the same too, and the other thing..."

"Lips," Spike said, "Mouth.  Whatever."  It resembled a thick ring of discarded rubber, distended and obscene; it probably shifted when the basket was moved, he thought, and he reached in to rearrange it.  

Xander couldn't tell if he was fascinated or repulsed by the way Spike so casually handled the pieces of dead flesh.  Strictly speaking, he admitted, Spike kind of WAS dead flesh – but so calmly moving the mutilated pieces into a semblance of life?  He shuddered and looked away.

"Looks like her too," Spike finally muttered, having finished his arrangement.  Against his better judgment, Xander looked – sure enough, the lips were uncannily reminiscent of Dawns' full mouth.  Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Spike's bloodied fingers brush across the legs of his jeans.  Wiping the dead blood away like dirt.

"So," Spike started.  "We agree that they're all Dawn-like, in some way or other."

"There's this, too."  Xander held out a scrap of paper, bearing one neat word. 

"'Almost'," Spike read.  He tucked the note into the wicker of the basket and pressed his lips together.  "Right."  He paused, scanning the yard, then turned back to Xander.  "And the rest are around the side."

"I only got a quick look before you got here, but yeah."  Xander gestured towards the sun, just peeking over the horizon.  "I'd show you, but..."

"That side of the house has shade 'til around ten," Spike said absently, his eyes still on the basket.  He took a deep breath, and Xander couldn't tell if it had to do with what he had seen.  "We'll have to take care of it before the neighborhood wakes – someone'll have to," he amended, glancing at Xander, who nodded curtly.  

Suddenly, Spike changed topics.  "You checked Dawn, though – she's fine?"

"Freaked out, heard a lot of noises – but she's fine."

"She's a strong girl," Spike stated, in a way Xander thought almost self-satisfactory.  "I'll take a look, come back with her sister, all right?"

"Put this away first."  Xander handed over the basket, discreetly covering the contents once again.

"What, you want me to just leave it on a table?" Spike asked incredulously. 

"No," Xander answered flatly.  "Put it in the fridge in the basement, where we keep all the spare body parts."

Spike looked as though he might sneer, but Xander's face stayed serious, and his smirk gradually died away.  "As the man says, then – fridge in the basement."

"Thanks."

*

Willow's subconscious registered the footsteps first.  It took her a few confusing seconds to sort out the twinge in her stomach, the way her entire body tightened and her head began to buzz, and she nearly called out for Xander.  But then the sound reached her ears – the oddly light steps of someone navigating the Summers house expertly, but so, so quickly.  Almost as though the feet didn't need to touch the ground.  

"Buffy?" Dawn spoke before she was properly awake, the tempo of the walk having roused her from her exhausted state.  She pushed her hair out of her face, blinking madly.  "Where's Buffy?"

But Willow couldn't respond.  Her throat had seized up.  Buffy had reached the door now, and Willow responded viscerally to the prospect of only one thin wooden door between herself and the Slayer.  Swiftly, she stood up, almost dumping Dawn onto the floor in her haste to get away.

She was halfway across the basement before she realized what she was doing.  And then she stopped, stock still, as though nailed to the floor.  Instinct warred with sense, and as the door opened at the top of the basement stairs, Willow's entire body trembled.  

She could feel it: the panic prompted helplessness, which was followed by anger, and then determination, a burning, bubbling force that lay dormant in every other situation.  Sometimes she thought it was magical residue in her blood, a physical taint that she would carry with her for the rest of her life.  A slick and slimy feeling that boiled in her veins and made strange languages lurk on her tongue, made her hands itch to form symbols in the air.  Sometimes she would catch a whiff of spice or herb, and how bitter it was that she used to be proud of this talent, this skill!  And now all she could do was hold on, try not to let the terror and panic override her.  

Also, she thought wryly, she'd rather not faint in front of Buffy.

Willow was straining so hard for control that she almost missed Buffy's entrance.  She was nearly unrecognizable – her hair, her stance, even some of the clothes.  But more than that, the way she interacted with Dawn... Willow was amazed.  No histrionics, no fussing; Buffy just held her sister close, but not too tight, and smiled.  They both did, while speaking low and quickly, flashes of humor and feeling exchanged comfortably.  Buffy wasn't treating Dawn as a child anymore, it seemed, and the sisters obviously thrived on their new relationship.  And then Dawn's glance darted straight at Willow, and her blood shocked cold as she waited for Buffy to turn on her.

"Willow."  Buffy's voice wasn't warm by any stretch; but it was civil, and Willow could see Dawn's fingers tighten encouragingly in Buffy's grasp.  

"Will stayed on the phone with me for almost an hour, Buffy."  Dawn spoke lightly, smiling widely at Willow over her sister's shoulder.  "She and Xander came flying down, as soon as I called, and Willow let me talk to her.  She told stories too, really distracted me.  The entire time.  It really calmed me down."

"What about?"  Buffy's face was impassive, which could mean a couple of things.  One, she could've become a better actress in the past two years and could now stop her emotions from coming across in her expression.  Or secondly?  She could actually have no feelings whatsoever towards Willow.

Willow wasn't sure which option she preferred, and quickly distracted herself by answering the question.  "England stuff?  Um, slang, customs, the time I went to Hastings when it was being invaded by reenactors...." She faltered and looked to Dawn.  "Did I tell you that Big Ben means the bell, not the tower?"  

At that, the corner of Buffy's mouth twitched a little, and Willow tentatively tried to return the smile.  No such luck – by the time she got up the courage, Buffy's face had fallen again, and Willow was left grinning at nothing, like a fool.  The silence was heavy in the air, and Willow's heart began to pick up tempo again.

"If you're going to stay, you can sleep in Dawn's room," Buffy suddenly announced, then looked surprised at her own voice.  Dawn, on the other hand, let out a laugh.

"Oh, that's nice!  Given anything else away while I was gone?"  She elbowed Buffy and the older girl looked back at her with a raised eyebrow.

"No!  I'll get a place in town, or..."  Willow stuttered to a halt.

"Yes, with our myriad hotels and boardinghouses here in Sunnydale," Buffy finished dryly. Willow flushed.

"Oh, stop it, both of you - she's only teasing," Dawn sighed as she loped over to Willow, casting a deliberate arm around her shoulders.  "Anyhow, I always sleep in Buffy's room my first night home, it's kind of like a tradition.  Besides, have you seen the size of the BED in there?!?  It's like four of my dorm beds in one!"

Willow let herself be guided upstairs by Dawn, listening to the girl chatter steadily all the while.  As she passed Buffy, she allowed herself a brief look into the other woman's face; her expression was appraising, perhaps a little suspicious... but open, at least.  If she had ever let herself dream about a second chance in Sunnydale, this was its realization.  She took a breath, smiled, and began to climb out of the shadows.

"Was just coming to get you."

Buffy was paused in the hallway, her head tilted to look up the stairs where she'd left her sister with a witch.  Spike's voice brought her out of her daze quickly, though; she still wasn't used to his way of materializing out of nowhere.  How long ago had it been since there were all these people here, she thought to herself.  And did she really want them all back in her life now?

But these were questions to be dealt with later.  She rubbed at her eyes vigorously and pushed away from the banister.  "What you got?"

"Basket of goodies that are better heard of, not seen," Spike replied as they headed for the porch.  "And then, a bit of a bigger problem."

"Meaning..."  Buffy glared.  She hated when he got theatrical this early in the morning.

But Spike didn't rise to her jibe, instead looking unusually uncomfortable.  Xander jumped into the breach instead.

"Did you show her the basket?"

Spike shook his head.  "She was headed off with Dawn when I went in, didn't think it appropriate.  It's stowed out of sight."  

"Yeah, okay.  The basket," Xander explained, "had human parts in it...."

"Eugh!"

"I know.  But - and here's where it gets really creepy – they seem to be some kind of FrankenDawn gag, or something."

Buffy stared at him.  "Come again?"

"They were Dawn-like bits of girls," Spike cut Xander off before he could start.  "A long, brown-haired scalp trophy; pair of eyes in Dawn's colour; and then a set of lips, all quite professionally done."  Buffy recoiled a little at the clinical tone of his voice, but he didn't react.

"And now, there's something bloody in your side yard," he finished, looking to Xander.  "Did you look again?"

"Yes."  And finally, Buffy really looked at Xander.  He was pale, ashy under his builder's tan, and his hand shook as he took her arm.  Together, they walked around the corner of the house, Spike skirting by in the thick shadows under the eaves.  Whatever lay in wait, it had Xander almost physically ill.  And Spike was getting more wired with every step.

And then they were there.  Up against the side of the house, between one of the basement windows and the garden hose, lay three bodies.  They were propped up in casual poses, as if they were just three highschoolers playing hooky on a sunny day.  Bone from a skull was clearly visible on one girl; another wept blood and fluid from empty sockets, while the last's ruined mouth...  Buffy unconsciously clapped both hands over her own lips as she took in the ragged tears where skin had been roughly ripped away.

In their GAP sweaters and carefully chosen jeans, their color-coordinated scarves wrapped jauntily around their necks or around the straps of their messenger bags, they lolled against the siding and offered their hosts rictus -grins.

TBC


	28. Pretty Maids

*

Usually, she found cocoa achingly sweet, too much sugar cutting the drink like a knife, stinging her tongue.  But this – this was perfect.  The sweetness hit the roof of her mouth and spread warmly, waiting until it left her tongue to declare the hint of chocolate beneath.  And all around, milk, which somehow gentled and refined the other two ingredients.  She swallowed again, gratefully.

"Good?"  Dawn asked from the other side of the couch.  Willow nodded, cradling the mug close to her chest.  She had never thought that she would sit on this couch again, feeling the warmth seep through this mug and into her palms.  There were some wishes that were too precious to really hope for, and this had been one of them.

"Good.  Because I need to set some things straight with you."

The tone of voice was enough to set her pulse racing.  Willow looked up, startled.  Dawn was watching her calmly, but with a sort of determination in her gaze.  Dawn had set her own mug on the coffee table and was so poised, so controlled – Willow suddenly got the taste of iron on her tongue, and it made sense.  There was something incredibly steely about the teenager's attitude.  

That was new.

"You do?"  No, that sounded too weak.  She cleared her throat, tried again.  "Is this something I should be discussing with Buffy?"

Dawn's lips twisted wryly.  "Yeah, well, she talks tough, but Buffy doesn't really like discussions like the one we're about to have."

And suddenly, Willow realized how the dynamics in the house had shifted.  Buffy had always been the impulsive one, reined in only by her friends and her mentors.  When she (and the guilt dug at her again, though she managed to ignore it) had destroyed much of that, someone had needed to step in, to become Buffy's compass.

The whiny child could not have assumed that role.  But this woman she was seeing now – she could.  

And clearly, she had.

Dawn spoke calmly, but the change was remarkable.  She placed her cocoa on the table and turned to face Willow, her face impassive.  

"I'm very sorry about Tara, Willow.  I think I said that at the time, but I'm not sure it got through."  Willow winced slightly, but Dawn continued.  "I don't want to draw this out, but I need to know what's going on with you.  Because if you're unstable at all, we're going to have to fix that before there's a situation when we have to rely on you."

It was odd.  Willow had imagined this question, but she'd always seen it asked in an accusatory manner.  Dawn's voice was smooth and even, her expression frank.  There would be no judgment here.

And so the tale tumbled out.  The blackouts, the temptation, the triggers, the guilt, all in one constant stream of confession that wove in and out of the room.  And little by little, the words didn't sound so bad.  Dawn nodded and sympathized, the cocoa was slowly finished, and the light began to fill the room so that even the shadows of memory were chased away.  

*

Buffy laid down the shovel and rubbed her hands together.  Her palms rasped against each other, dry and rough from digging so long, the familiar maroon welts of blood-blisters rising in swollen contour.  The needling pain the friction caused felt good.

"Just can't get away from the cemeteries, can I," she breathed, watching Xander as he carefully evened the freshly-turned earth.  Spike had retreated into the house when the sun got too high to bear – by then, they had excavated a sizeable chunk of the backyard.  Buffy and Xander hadn't missed his company; he'd silently taken the handling of the shrouded corpses upon himself, not allowing the others too near, and hadn't communicated in more than grunts until the girls were laid in the ground.  And then he'd vanished.  

Maybe he'd had enough of cemeteries too.

Xander looked over at her, his face streaked with dirt, and rested his wrists on the handle of his shovel.  "I'll go to the garden center, get some plants – something pretty.  It won't look any different from other flowerbeds; I've picked that much up from the site landscapers."

Buffy shook her head.  "I'm not worried about the cemetery look – though, god, how many bodies do we have buried out here?"  She stopped short when Xander's eyes flew open in alarm, his head twitching towards the neighboring houses.  She sighed, censored her speech. "I guess I just don't think it's worth getting creeped out about at this point – what's a few more?  Not to mention, no more pesky dragging – finally, a nemesis who delivers."

She'd retreated to the shade of one of the trees, and now leaned against the cool, smooth bark, closing her eyes.  She heard Xander meander over, then felt him settle down beside her.

"Hey – sometimes, things just go wrong."  Xander cupped her cheek, and the scent of the dirt caked on his hands was almost heady.  "You have to stop thinking of yourself as someone who can prevent all bad things from happening.  Sometimes, you can.  Sometimes we're ahead of the game, and those are the good days."  

"So this would be a bad day," Buffy said.  She tried to say it lightly, but her tone fell short of the mark, and Xander didn't let it slide.

"Buffy, you let the bad days get to you too much.  You're not psychic, and you're not invincible.  But sweetie," he pulled her closer, and she allowed her head to fall onto his chest.  It felt safe. "On your worst day, you do more things right than most people do on their best."

Buffy smiled ruefully, still tucked under his chin. "Xander, you never look at me as anything else but human."  

"That's because you ARE human."  The words rumbled through his chest, a comforting vibration against her cheek.  "You may be harder to break than the rest of us, and there are a couple of other bonuses thrown in, but..."  He broke off, frustrated.  "You don't see it!  You think that you have to be more, all the time, when you don't.  Human is your resting state, and it's what you should return to – not some higher thingie!

"Thingie?"

"You knocking my heartfelt speech?  Besides, it's better than doodad, which was the original choice."

"Nah, I like thingie.  I like you."

"I like you, too."

*

The attic was hot, but also windowless.  And to tell the truth, the blistering heat was kind of welcome.  

Spike had seen many things in his time.  Gore and destruction, entire periods of history when atrocity was the order of the day.  But they'd always been at arm's length before.

Maybe he was too close, because his imagination was working overtime.  Those girls, without their lips and eyes and hair – every time he had touched them, he had seen Tara, or Alicia... or, of course, Dawn.  Dawn without her eyes, with a raw red wound where each one had lain, now sightless and...

Kane had meant this to hurt Buffy.  Spike could only hope that his own weakness hadn't been spotted as well.

Spike was a fidgeter.  His hands flitted over various boxes and suitcases as he brooded, peering inside each one with idle curiosity.  It was a bizarre experience – each new container was like a time capsule, bursting with the strangest things.  Macaroni art.  Old elementary school t-shirts.  A fishing pole covered in Barbie stickers.  A tie-dyed hat that read "Camp Piney" in purple puff-paints.  A photo album of the Summers family, before that father of theirs left.

Sometimes he wondered if these were artifacts from before or after the Slayer legacy.  He wondered if it made a difference.

The fact that he cared about these relics from a human life, that they meant something to him...  Once he might have disdained this as a weakness, as clinging on to humanity.  He would have told himself to stop forming these attachments to a life that was no longer his, to leave it behind and advance to that higher, vampire plane.

Today, though, he feared the emotions Dawn and her family raised in him for different reasons.  Now, rather than worrying about how he would be hurt in the exchange, he was obsessed with the way his presence would affect those he loved.   

Briefly, he peered out of one of the ventilation slats into the garden below.  Buffy was huddled with Harris under a tree, their faces obscured by the angle of branches.  His heart froze for a moment – she'd blame herself, she always did, she'd tumble down into some sort of guilty morass and wallow there...

But then Harris said something, and she laughed.  A clear, happy laugh that made Spike jealous and delighted and heartbroken all at once.

And he didn't know how to explain that reaction at all.

*

Dawn didn't recognize the sound of the front doorbell at first.  To be fair, she wasn't used to it – people usually entered their house with their own key, or by hammering on the door, and every so often someone was launched through the window.  So it wasn't surprising that she didn't look up from her conversation with Willow until the third ring, a long, insistent tone that indicated someone was leaning on the buzzer.

Hard.

"Alistair, cut it out."

"They might be in the back yard!"

"Yes, they could be, but give it a second.  We don't want them sending us off as soon as we've arrived."

Dawn hesitated as the voices came through the door, then suddenly it all came flooding back.  Giles.  Giles sending people.  

Weird people?

"Dawn?"  Buffy murmured from the end of the hall, her face dirt-smudges and sweaty.  "Are you going to open it?"

But she didn't have to – suddenly the door swung inward, nearly knocking her off her feet, and leaving her face to face with an incredibly tall redheaded man.  A man who was only on a level with her because he was crouched down, apparently jimmying the lock to their home with the complicated metal wands arrayed between his fingers.

A man who, with a guilty smile, offered one word: 

"Turnip?"

tbc


	29. Roots

"Turnip?" the figure said again, his speech jumbled around the penlight clenched between his teeth. He rose to his feet as he spoke, a process that only emphasized the length of him. It was like watching a giraffe stand up, long expanses of unbending limbs that gracefully pushed him to a height of well above six feet. Which, of course, immediately brought his head in contact with the doorframe.

"Fucking hell!" The penlight clattered to the wooden floorboards, slipping through a crack. And in one movement, he had darted out of sight, tapered fingers clutched tight over his skull. A guttural cry was interrupted again with the plea, "Turnip!"

Dawn blinked. "No? But… I'm Dawn. What?" This felt stupid, talking to open air. She edged closer to the door, carefully staying out of reach, but angling to try and catch sight of the stranger again.

"Can you see him?" Buffy's voice was low and tense behind her; Dawn could sense her sister beginning to assess weapons in the hallway. Faint murmuring sounds floated in from the porch, punctuated every so often by a loud "faugh!" sound.

"No. But daylight, so… not vampire." Dawn reached out and picked up a set of keys from the table, the metal cold and solid in her palm. "Giant redheads just don't vanish, do they?"

"Not that I know of."

Dawn cocked her head towards the open door, hefting the keychain. "Well, what do you think? Should we… just…"

"No!" A woman suddenly darted into view, both hands held up in surrender. Far from the bizarre figure from before, this person was about as average as could be imagined: medium height, medium build, dressed like any woman Dawn might pass in the street. The only thing that truly set her apart was a rather amazing head of brown hair, currently exploding in a halo-like burst around her head. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry – I'm Mina." Her hair wisped into her face as she spoke, and she irritatedly swept it back behind her ear.

Buffy didn't move. "That's nice. Now, who are you?"

Mina froze for a moment, then let out an explosive gust of air, her palms smacking against her thighs dramatically as she brought her arms back down. She leaned slightly to her right, hissing "You didn't even tell them?" before turning her attention back to the sisters.

"I'm sorry, I'd started to go around the back, we don't usually pick locks, we were told this job had a time limit…And frankly, judging from the door, we thought we might be too late." She shrugged apologetically, gesturing towards the splintered and scarred wood. "We've been sent by – well, sort of by your Council, though it's a little more complicated than that. I think your contact is Giles? Or… Is that his first or last name?"

"Last," Buffy replied automatically. She came closer to the door, clearly curious. "And… why would Giles send you? Are you…" Buffy peered past Mina. "There was someone else here, right?"

"OH! Me!" Dawn's voice burst out. "Turnip! Yes! Yes, you can come in, and they're okay, and Giles called!" She shut her eyes and waved her hands in the air, trying to ward off the confusion, and opened them to find her sister staring at her as though she'd lost her mind. "I forgot!"

Buffy snorted, turning to Mina. "I'm sorry, she sometimes goes insane. But apparently you're kosher, so hi. I'm Buffy. Welcome to our happy hovel." She gave the woman a wry grin and gestured inside.

Mina chuckled, her hand going to her wild hair again. "Delighted to meet you. Well, if we're introducing our personal mental patients," she said, her eyes darting mischeviously at Dawn to take away the sting, "then let me introduce mine, Aled. Ali, are you bleeding?"

"Internally, maybe, but don't you bother yourself, it's only my brain." The giant hove into view again, one hand still cupped protectively against the top of his head. Dawn started a little as she recognized a thick Scottish brogue; she wouldn't have expected this lanky man to speak like Sean Connery at all. He winced at them amiably as he came to stand behind Mina in the doorway, slinging a lanky arm over and around her shoulders. "Sorry to have startled you, I honestly thought something had attacked the house and we would have to break in." Mina elbowed him, and he coughed. "Perhaps a little overzealous on my part. Apologies." At Buffy's gesture, they both entered the house and made their way into the living room.

Dawn closed the door behind them. "I'll get you some ice for your head," she called after the couple.

"And backup, please," Buffy muttered as she walked past. Dawn nodded, and went in search of Willow and Xander.

"I have to admit, I have no clue why you're here. Or what you do." Buffy perched on the armrest of Xander's chair, watching the two arrivals on the couch. Unexpectedly, they both seemed to be around her age, maybe a little older. Aled leaned back in the cushions, clearly happy to let Mina do the talking as she perched on the edge of the couch, her eager and open face turned towards her host. The can of soda Buffy had offered lay unopened on the table; she got the impression that Mina planned to talk too much to waste time drinking it.

"Our contact – we work in collaboration with the Council sometimes, so he got the call through official channels from them – well, he said that your sister is experiencing a level of physical and possibly mental dissonance." Buffy's expression didn't change, so Mina plowed ahead, her hands moving animatedly as she spoke.

"We specialize in tracing energy patterns, or more specifically, energy leaks. The pattern of each person is different, of course, so we can't promise an immediate fix – we'll have to spend some time sorting out what's going on with Dawn, but hopefully we'll have her mended and back as she was in no time." Mina checked herself, noting Buffy's obvious confusion. "We know that Dawn is experiencing lost time, in a way that is very clearly affecting others in her environment. We need to find the catalyst, and either stop it from setting Dawn off, or figure out a way for her to deal with it inside herself."

"And… this happens a lot? To other people?" Willow asked hopefully, her eyes flickering between Aled and Mina. That seemed very unlikely, and Buffy's doubt showed on her face.

Mina shrugged. "Often enough. I mean, usually we're called out for people who are…" she cleared her throat delicately and gestured towards Buffy, "not connected like you are. It's usually something that happens to civilians. You know: electricians, people who work in nuclear plants, physicists who work in actual experimentation – not so much with the theory."

"They have no idea what we're doing, obviously," Aled put in from deep in the couch cushions. "You're the first people we've been able to approach openly, so hopefully we can get to the root of it without faffing about."

"And how long does it usually take?" Xander asked pointedly.

Mina shrugged apologetically. "We can't give you a timeframe. As I said, we don't usually work with people who have your sort of connections to alternate energies. And Dawn is a very, very special case. The root of her energy is an unknown quantity, which was fine until recently – but now there are problems, we're going to have to look into those roots."

Dawn arrived with the ice and handed it to Aled, who accepted it with a pathetically grateful sigh, and then settled next to Willow to listen.

"But we don't work with electricity," Buffy said. "We're an axes-and-crossbows family, there's not much technology floating around at any given time, and I don't think any of us have been zapped recently." She turned to Dawn. "Did anything happen while you were at school?"

Dawn shook her head. "Nope, no zappage at all." She shifted uncomfortably, and Willow placed a reassuring hand on her back. She peered back at Mina. "So this is all about me and the knock-out effect?"

"In a way, yes. It's got more to do with where your energy is going – energy doesn't just disappear into thin air, especially life energy. So we need to find out what's making you fail."

"You make her sound like a machine." Spike growled from the hallway. Mina froze, her open expression clouded by uncertainty, though Dawn felt it had more to with Spike's unexpected appearance rather than self-doubt. Compared to Aled, Spike was slight, but he made up for it with a threatening aura that seemed to expand around him, shadowing his surroundings. Next to Buffy, Xander audibly repressed a sigh. Dawn closed her eyes, hoping Spike wasn't preparing for a protective rant.

Then Aled's voice rumbled up from the recesses of the couch. "The human body is very much like a machine, you know." It would have been near-impossible for his presence to have gone unnoticed, had he not been crouched down with his ice pack, but Spike's surprise was evident as Aled unfolded himself and stood at his full height in the small room. "The mind is as well, in many ways. It's just a matter of getting the balance right before all the circuitry fries."

Spike eyed the newcomer. "Dawn's not going to 'fry'." He drew out the last word, warping it.

"Exactly. That's why we're here." Aled smiled calmly, then turned to Dawn. "I don't want to melt all over your sofa – is there somewhere I can put this?" He gestured to the towel Dawn had wrapped the ice in, already soaked through. She jumped up to take it from him, and began to turn towards the kitchen as Aled sat down again, but paused at the doorway.

She could feel Spike behind her, the suspicion radiating off of him. It wasn't his fault, it was just how he was. But she turned back to the group, and with Spike's watchful gaze on her, she went to stand next to Aled.

Aled looked up at her, completely unruffled, and nodded. He bowed his head and Dawn lightly ran her hand across the top of his head, his hair smoothing down under her touch. She found the lump quickly, and carefully parted the shock of red strands.

"No blood," she commented, and Aled lifted his head again. "But it's a pretty huge goose egg. Want more ice?"

"Thanks, love. You've been more than kind," he replied. Mina beamed at Dawn, her fingers lacing with Aled's reassuringly.

Across the room, Spike caught Dawn's eye, a smile twitching on his lips. He raised both eyebrows and dipped his head, the closest to "point taken" he was going to give. He pushed away from the doorjamb and entered the room properly, settling in front of the fireplace, ready to listen.

Buffy took a deep breath. With the ice slowly melting through her fingers, Dawn walked into the kitchen, as the familiar and confident sound of her sister's voice began to echo behind her. There would be a plan, she knew.

Dawn put the ice in the sink and turned back to the room that held her family. There would be a plan, and this time, she would be part of it from the start.


	30. Dawn at Dusk

"It's certainly an interesting hobby…"

Dawn closed the door and looked over to Mina, who was studying something with great focus. In the corner farthest from the window, a delicate tangle of brightly-coloured paper cascaded down from what looked to be the cannibalized remains of wire hangers. On closer inspection, each tiny construction proved to be a tiny paper animal, frogs and swans and bulls, an origami menagerie suspended on a network of thin filaments of fiber. The entire structure shuddered at the slightest movement within the room, making the animals look as though they were breathing.

Mina touched a dove gently, and it bobbed, causing all the other connected animals to take flight as well. "Some of these are incredibly elaborate – I'm always envious of people who can do things like this, I'm all thumbs."

"Oh," Dawn laughed a little, biting back a smile. "Those aren't mine. At least, I didn't make them." She crossed the room, seeing the origami again for the first time. They really were spectacular. "A friend made them for me. He was cooped up for a while, I guess he needed something to do."

Mina suddenly bent down, eyebrows raised, and pointed to a spindly black-and-green creature. "That's isn't a Knavroth spider?" Her tone of disbelief was understandable; very few people even knew of Knavroths, never mind could fold one from an origami sheet.

"Yeah, watch this." Dawn placed her hand underneath it and let the many legs rest on her palm. Then, just as the string above the creature began to slacken, a previously-unseen spike of paper descended violently from the spider's centre, jabbing into her palm.

"Good god!" Mina had jumped back a bit at the sudden motion, then laughed at herself, embarrassed to have been startled by a toy. "That's worryingly accurate! But not too accurate, thankfully, or you'd be a deep shade of purple at the moment. And on the floor. In liquid form, if I remember rightly."

Dawn grinned and carefully removed her hand, and the spider swung idly from the string again, lost in the forest that, upon closer inspection, Mina realized was far more varied than the usual flora and fauna found in origami books.

"So this friend – he's one of you?"

Dawn shrugged. "Sort of." She darted a quick, wry smile at the older girl, who was still carefully eyeing the spider. "When I first took that one out of the box, he'd made sure the spider's spike was sharp enough to give me a paper cut. Right there." She fingered her palm, now gazing past the mass of folded figures. Something sad was under her expression, Mina saw, and her unfocused gaze indicated she was deep in thought or memory.

"It must be nice to have someone to talk to about all of it," Mina ventured carefully.

"He didn't talk, really." Dawn's brow creased a bit. "He lived in LA with his dad, who…" And suddenly, she snapped out of her reverie, an almost audible break in her thought. She smiled brightly at Mina. "Doesn't matter. We didn't really know each other. He was a bit of a psycho, actually."

Door closed, then, Mina thought to herself. She allowed Dawn to avoid her gaze, and promptly became business-like again.

"Okay – do you feel all right to get started, then?" Mina said brightly.

"Sure. Is there anything that I have to do, anything that I should…?"

"Well, it's best if you're relaxed and just kind of drifting, mentally," Mina suggested. She glanced around the room; an office chair sat in front of a small desk, a low blanket chest with pillows piled on the top formed a makeshift window seat, and the bed were the only places to sit. Mina briefly wandered over to the window and peered out, but the sight of freshly-churned earth in the garden quickly convinced her that this would not be most relaxing viewpoint.

"How about we take some of the pillows from here, and you can sort of half-lie on the bed?" Mina suggested. "If you drop off to sleep, that would be just as good – I'll have to wake you up if you go into REM or start actively dreaming, though. I won't be able to see your dreams," she quickly added as Dawn looked alarmed, "It just would screw up the flow of things."

Dawn was quickly settled on the bed, propped up comfortably against the headboard. Mina drew the office chair up to the side, carefully positioning herself facing Dawn. Although she made no mention of it, Mina was very aware of the origami structure that would be right in Dawn's eyeline – it had managed to draw Dawn into a bit of a trance before, it might be able to do the trick again.

Dawn looked very slightly apprehensive. Mina patted her hand briefly.

"It'll work just like we said downstairs. You just breathe and let your mind wander, and I'll sit here and wait. All I'm doing is looking, so I won't touch you and you shouldn't feel anything odd at all. Nothing is going to be messing with you in any way."

Dawn nodded, still a little wary. "What are you looking for again? I mean, energies, I know, but how can you tell?"

Mina exhaled. "It's so difficult to explain, because I honestly don't understand myself. There's not exactly a science to this voodoo. But…" She glanced over at the window again, where afternoon sun spilled into the room in a long golden stream. "Do you see how, when you look at that sunbeam, there are tiny bits of dust glinting? Not that your room is dirty, it happens in even the cleanest room – tiny motes of matter that catch the light in just the right way. And they move with the air currents, so if I do this," she said, and took a huge breath of air before exhaling towards the light, "See how the eddies and currents change? And the tiny motes make that invisible air movement visible, right?"

All of this made sense to Dawn. "So… energy is like air? Invisible, but you can see tiny bits of stuff in it?"

Mina nodded smartly. "Yes. Except, just like sunbeams, you can only see it if you're looking at exactly the right spot, at the right time, from the right angle. It's really a pain in the ass." She made a face, so honestly disgruntled that Dawn laughed out loud.

"But YOU can see it, right?"

"Sometimes," Mina sighed. "I'm better at it now than I used to be, but you know how people say only twenty percent of the human mind is actually used consciously? Well, whatever this ability is, it's tucked well away in a section that I can't access easily. Most people can't access it at all, even unconsciously," she ceded, "But that doesn't make it any more comforting when I've been trying to see something for ages and it just won't kick into gear."

Dawn had relaxed considerably, her frame easy as she reclined on her bed, torso and head on a mass of cushions. Mina's explanations had been hesitantly accepted by the rest of the group downstairs, and though Dawn had been willing from the start, it was much easier that Mina was so ready to answer questions. The quiet of the room was beginning to sink in, the lazy way the dust floated in the sunlight, the gentle movements of the origami mobile in the corner – a crystallizing moment, as though they were all stuck in amber, able to sleep forever.

A chuckle bubbled out of Dawn; her eyelids were drooping a little now, the languor of the moment taking over completely, so she was almost half-conscious already. "I still can't quite believe my sister let us do this without her hovering."

Mina's voice was low and warm in response. "It's the blonde vampire I was more worried about, actually. The energy coming off of him alone – trying to block those two is hard enough to do when they're in a different part of the house, they'd put me in a coma if they were in here the entire time. But I left them the Jolly Red Giant as collateral. Which I'm sure they'll find interesting."

"Is he your boyfriend?"

The textures of Mina's voice changed ever so slightly, an echoing resonance that struck true in Dawn's bones. "He's my everything, forever, and from before forever existed."

And Dawn had only a moment to puzzle about that odd declaration before she felt herself slip into a light and absent-minded sleep.

... 

"How's the head?" Xander asked, joining Aled outside where the taller man stood amongst the freshly-made graves.

"Ah, I'm six foot seven, I'm used to occasional brain damage by now. Or perhaps it just isn't that noticeable in the first place," the man responded affably, accepting the drink Xander offered. Both men stood silently for a while, looking out at the garden full of turned-over earth.

"I'll assume this hasn't much to do with planting," Aled dryly broke the silence.

"In a way, yes. But mostly, no."

"Mmm." The manly silence ensued, and Xander realized how rare this situation was for him. Not since… well, Riley, actually, had there been another guy in this house who hadn't wanted to kill him, or hated him, or whom he hated, or – well, there was Giles, he supposed. But Giles hadn't been able to do this silent guy-thing, either. And frankly, he wasn't exactly sure that Giles liked him too much.

Ah, well. Can't have everything.

The light bounced off of Dawn's window and caught his eye, and he turned to Aled, only to see that the redhead was also looking up at that window, a twist of a smile on his face. "Mina's getting frustrated," he commented, in a half-indulgent, half-sympathetic tone.

"You can feel that?"

Aled shook his head. "No – but they've been up there for an hour. I've been with her for long enough to know where her thresholds are: one hour, she'll start getting tetchy; two hours, she'll have to take a break and argue with herself inside her head for a good ten minutes; three hours, that's usually when everyone gets hungry and she can take a break for a while. Then the entire cycle starts again." He sighed. "She's very hard on herself."

Xander frowned. "What about Dawn?"

"She's either asleep, or thinking, or bored," Aled shrugged. "Imagine if someone were telekinetic, and they were trying to lift a weight with only the power of their mind. It's the telekinetic who's going to go mental trying to do it, not the weight. The weight has no idea it's happening at all."

Xander was mollified, a bit. Mina, and to a lesser degree Aled, had tried to explain fully what was happening in the room upstairs, but they had a habit of speaking in a lot of metaphors. Apparently a lot of this was intuitive, and could not be interrupted by other… "energy signatures" nearby, but Xander had become used to dimensions, to numbers and diagrams and things he could calculate, touch, feel. After Mina's explanation, he had almost expected Mina to pull a dreamcatcher and crystals out of her satchel – this was all a bit too new-age for him.

Suddenly, Aled's head jerked up, startling Xander.

"Mina needs to see Buffy. Where is she?" Aled's tone was so casual, it was hard to reconcile with his words.

"Is something wrong?"

"No, Mina just needs her, and it would be better off if Mina needn't leave the room to fetch her." Aled began to lope towards the house, his progress abruptly halted when Xander grabbed his arm.

Xander was stockier than Aled, and for a moment it struck them both that they might be evenly matched, if they were ever set against each other. It was a brief thought, but one borne out of the intensity radiating off of Xander as it dawned on him that there was more to the Aled-Mina relationship than they'd been told.

But Aled spoke quickly and quietly, answering the unspoken question as he had a hundred times before. "Yes, there's more to the story. There's more to every story. And we will tell you, as we have told many others, including your Council, who know we're no threat at all to you. But right now, I need to get your Slayer to my wife." And he turned Xander's grasp so that now he held Xander's shoulder, not forcefully, but in an earnest gesture.

Xander stared at him for a moment, then rolled his eyes before striding towards the house. "One day," he muttered, "I will not be the last one to know things."

... 

"Mi."

Aled's voice was soft and low, exactly the right pitch to catch Mina's attention, but not enough to wake Dawn. He waited as she pulled herself together, like someone trying to wake from a very heavy slumber. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair had been hurriedly pinned back with the hundreds of bobby pins she kept tucked in a pocket, so it now twisted in tens of little tendrils all channeled down her back. She'd taken off her cardigan in the chilly room, and the freckles that dusted her shoulders and arms were vivid against her skin. Her eyes, when she finally looked up at him in the doorway, were dilated fully, deep and black.

His heart exploded in his ribcage, or at least it felt as if it had. A languid smile touched her lips gently, and he saw her chest lift as she breathed it in, the wash of emotion that came off of him, the strength of it making her skin tingle. She felt the beauty he saw in her, and he saw her blossom even more under it.

Buffy, of course, saw none of this. Ushered into the room just prior to Aled, she merely saw an exhausted-looking, plain woman with messy hair before her eyes darted to Dawn, comfortably reclined in bed. She'd been warned to stay silent, to not wake Dawn at any cost, and so she moved silently to the place by the bed Alec indicated.

Mina's movements were far from the brisk efficiency she'd shown earlier on. The woman's back was bent, her elbows on her knees and her forearms hanging loosely between them. Everything about her was slack as she gazed at Dawn, then Buffy, then back to Dawn again. Minutes passed as she repeated this circuit, again and again, and Buffy only barely held in the questions she felt ricocheting around inside of her. Then suddenly, Aled was moving, silently, his long legs taking him out of the room in two massive strides, though he stepped so lightly that Dawn didn't even stir.

It was maddening, this waiting. Dusk would be falling soon, Buffy noted, her glance flicking over to the window. She didn't have time for all of this. She needed results, and quickly, and nighttime was too precious to spend it cooped up in rooms with witch-doctoresses and their lanky sidekicks. She could keep Dawn safe, she knew. Why did Giles have to send these two, anyhow? Weren't there others? Couldn't he have come himself? At least then she would have known that Dawn was safe when she left in the evening, as she would certainly have to do tonight. Kane was still out there, still creeping around, and she didn't want to plant any more girls in the ground tomorrow.

Despite everything she'd been told, she was preparing to break the silence to question Mina when Aled returned as abruptly as he'd vanished. And this time, he had a shadow.

Spike's arrival was apparently sanctioned, as he walked over to the window without Mina moving a muscle. Spike's eyes found Dawn quickly, then briefly skipped over Mina and Buffy before returning to Aled. The tall redhead had moved closer to Mina, intense concentration evident on his face, before he looked back up to lock eyes with the vampire. He jerked his chin upwards briefly, and Spike began to roll up his sleeve. In her chair, Mina's skin glinted as the setting sun broke off a sudden sheen of sweat that covered her face, her arms, her chest.

Buffy would remember what happened next as if in a dream, it went so quickly and seemed so utterly unconnected to her, though everyone else played their part:

Spike thrust his right hand into the last of the sunlight as it spilled in through the glass, and the skin began to blister and burn immediately; Aled's voice cracked through the silence with shattering power as he called "Dawn, wake up!"; Spike jerked his ruined hand away from the light and cradled it in his other arm, just as Dawn's eyes opened and she saw the injured vampire at the foot of her bed; Dawn shouted Spike's name, her hands reaching out to him before she suddenly slumped over like a giant rag doll; Spike leapt to catch her, his arms coming up to cradle her, both hands intact and healthy and whole; and Mina let out a shout before flinging herself back against the chair, her hands pressed against her eye sockets and sucking in great gusts of air.


	31. Synergy

…

"What have you done?"

Buffy was shocked. She knelt by Dawn, whose breath was shallow and quick, pulse fluttering at her throat. Already her eyes were struggling to open, eyes rolled back but striving to focus. Spike made small soothing noises, and Dawn's face turned towards him. Buffy placed her hand on her sister's cheek and then jerked back, surprised. Dawn skin was hot to the touch, despite the coolness of the evening.

"What have you DONE?" She repeated, turning to Mina, who was still crushing the heel of her hand into one socket, then the other.

"My job." The change in Mina's voice was startling, a strained and grating sound. Aled gently placed his hands behind Mina's head and his long fingers began to smooth the muscles of her neck in long, deep sweeps. She winced, but leaned into his touch as the knots began to melt away.

"That's not an answer."

Aled shot Buffy an exasperated look. "Is your sister all right?"

"How would I know? Your girlfriend's the professional."

The expression on Aled's face indicated he was about to say something quite rude in return, but was saved by Dawn's weak, peevish interruption.

"Shut UP… Loud people…"

Spike grimaced lightly as he helped Dawn sit up. He too could feel the heat that radiated off of Dawn's skin; he kept his hands carefully flat and rigid, allowing her to use him as a frame to pull herself upright. She sucked air through her teeth sharply when she accidentally brushed her arm against his chest – her skin felt crisp, as though it might crackle and flake off is she made the wrong move.

"Oh my god," she groaned. "I feel like I've been roasted. Or boiled. Or fried."

"Probably a little bit of all that," Aled said sympathetically. His expression closed a little as he looked to Buffy. "Her skin's going to be tender for a while, you might want to get some of the aloe vera stuff, anything good for sunburn."

"I…" Buffy faltered; she clearly did not want to leave Dawn's side.

"I will." Spike brushed his thumb against Dawn's forehead and stood.

But before leaving, he paused by Aled. "We're not doing that again," he muttered shortly.

Aled returned his gaze calmly. "No."

…

Willow was baking.

It felt good, this kitchen. Yellows and greens and reds, it had been somewhat redesigned in her absence, but the shapes were the same. She fit in this kitchen, perched on this stool, the ceramic mixing bowl in front of her. She turned the contents over and over, folding them into each other, clean and fresh and wholesome.

She'd sat quietly through the meeting earlier, watching her friends and the strangers broker a sort of peace. Mina's earnestness was winning, but Willow spent much of her time watching Aled. There was something about him she couldn't place. Not a bad thing, she thought. Just – a difference. And the way he reflected Mina's mood, her anxieties, her effusiveness… All things to be expected in a lover or close friend, but he somehow anticipated her too soon or something.

But when they had all splintered into their respective corners – Mina and Dawn upstairs for what Mina elusively referred to as "the consultation", Spike lurking on the staircase, Buffy into the basement workshop, Aled and Xander to the yard – she had found herself pulled towards this kitchen. And in the ensuing hours, she realised, she'd baked up a bit of a storm.

Muffins, spiced breads, cookies, all sweet or savoury carbs piled high on counters and cooling racks, enough to feed a small army. Buffy, from the looks of the cabinets, mostly lived on tinned soups and takeout menus. But tucked away in a corner Willow had found flour, a rummage through the fridge had yielded eggs and butter, and the spice rack was slightly dusty but still packed with cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg.

For a house full of people, many of them quite volatile, Willow was grateful for the haven she had found. It was funny – after so much time spent isolating herself, trying to limit the amount of time she spent exposed to others and telling herself it was for their own good, she'd forgotten how this could feel. The sense of belonging, being able to care for others, to be part of an overall balanced dynamic. She had missed it, but was also beginning to realise that she'd been terribly, terribly scared of it as well.

Her mind fluttered a bit as her thoughts began the dread slide towards memory of what had happened last time she was so close to these people, these same exact people… She clutched the rim of the counter, waiting for the blackout to strike, hoping the floor wouldn't hurt too much when she fell…

But then, the most unexpected thing happened.

Rather than the nauseating tilt into unconsciousness she was so used to, she remained upright. The hated memories did not, for once, sink into her consciousness like a poison, inching through every part of her, controlling her completely. Instead, she sensed the greasy sensation wash away, drain into a more manageable shape, contained. It was so unreal that she almost slipped from her stool with the shock of it.

Had she reached a saturation point, she wondered? A state when she'd been in so much anguish for so long that she'd built up an immunity? In the past year, she had felt as though her brain were some sort of giant, squishy grey sponge, sucking up psychic pain and allowing it to diffuse everywhere, until there was no working part of her mind left untainted. Was there no more room to hurt?

No, she decided. It couldn't be that – for her to be saturated with that much self-loathing, that disgust, she would have to be continually miserable. Or, she noted dryly, dead. Instead, she decided, it had been like water slicking off a stone. Dirty water, to be sure, but her mind remained intact.

In wonderment she stared around the kitchen, where she'd first begun her turn down a darker path so many years in the past. If the universe believed in symmetry, could this be it? In this house of all places, where she should have been most vulnerable, perhaps she had finally begun to heal.

…

Spike leaned into the doorway. "How is she?"

"'She' is awake, Spike. God. " Dawn's sourness made Buffy move closer beside her. "I was asleep! Nothing even happened!"

"Not while you were asleep, no." The softness left Buffy's stance abruptly, and she cast a dark look at Spike. He handed Dawn a jar of ointment to wordlessly, without a hint of apology.

It was as if his motion flipped a switch in Buffy's mind. His lack of repentance enraged her, reigniting a fury she'd kept in check out of concern for her sister. Now that Dawn was seemingly only a little worse for wear, she allowed it to bubble out of her, a rapid, hissed anger she practically spit at him.

"What the hell did you think you were doing, you arrogant bastard?" She stood, tiny and electric, advancing on him. "You had no idea what that could have done to her! She's weak enough as it is, without you running around and trying… what, experiments on her?"

Spike looked at her coolly. "It needed to be done, Buffy. I wouldn't have harmed her, but it needed to be done."

Buffy exploded. "Oh, so YOU make all of the decisions now? My god, Spike! Who ARE you, to keep invading my family, my friends? If you'd broken her, it's not like you'd've stayed to fix it, would you?" The import of those words registered with him, she could tell by the way his shoulders jerked briefly.

And then, because it was on the tip of her tongue and because she wanted him to hurt, in a tone laden with all the scorn she could muster: "No, you run, Spike. I know you. You run."

Dawn's heart plunged straight through her stomach. She was forgotten, had frozen in the act of rubbing aloe into her face, wary of moving and drawing any attention. Buffy's words, she knew, were very close to the kind you can't recover from.

Briefly, in that silent aftermath, something inside Buffy twinged – she knew that this was not right, this questioning of his loyalty. He'd been honorable, he'd been fair, and she was drawing Dawn into something ugly and hurtful and fierce. But fear, delayed by the speed of events and the shock of Dawn's burning, was beginning to catch up to her. And, as a small nasty voice deep down kept reminding her, Spike's loyalty occasionally expressed itself in irrational, dangerous ways.

Spike dropped his head. Quietly, he spoke directly to the floor.

"I'm sorry you hurt." Breath in, blank face. "I'm so sorry I ever hurt you." And his eyes darted up for a moment, taking in Dawn first – who radiated back love and calm and acceptance like a balm – then Buffy, rigid and defensive, salt in a wound.

He turned and left the room, because there was nothing else that he could do.

…

"Better yet?"

Aled and Mina sat on the front porch on Revello Drive, on the long porch swing, rocking gently in the evening breeze. Aled's dimensions were perfectly suited to this activity; his torso formed a perfect curve where Mina nestled contentedly, and his leg idly pushed the swing back and forth, back and forth as he gently pulled his fingertips through her hair. She sighed, enjoying the caress, the sweet smell of California suburb, the way the air only hinted at a chill.

A brief kiss on her forehead made her smile, her eyes closed and drifting, and she roused herself to answer.

"Yeah, I'm okay." The throbbing had left her eye sockets by now, thank god – she'd never known any pain to feel worse than this, as though someone were yanking on her optic nerves, dragging her eyeballs through the back of her head. Monkeys. Tiny, evil monkeys, bouncing on the bundled nerves like jungle vines.

Her body reacted in sympathy with thought, and another surge of soreness made her wince and groan,

Aled's voice was immediately in her ear, low and soothing. "All right, you be still, let it fade…" She could feel him reach somewhere, and then something puffy and warm covered her.

"Aled, what…?" Her fingers plucked at the fabric curiously, and she sat upright to bring the handful to her face.

"No!"

Unexpectedly, Aled's hand was suddenly shielding her eyes, and she opened them to see nothing at all. Surprised, she laughed, bringing up both her hands to curl around his hovering fingers. "Care to explain?"

"Promise me first, you won't open your eyes one bit." His voice dropped again, once more drifting close to her ear, sending delicious prickles up her arms. And more primly, as an aside, "You're not meant to open them so soon either way, you naughty girl."

She shrugged; he was right, her eyes were probably still tender, and she was in no rush. The breeze was sweet and she was comfortable, so she obediently closed her eyes again, her eyelashes grazing his palm, and settled herself against him again. She could feel him tucking the fabric around her again, fussily tugging it up to cover her chest where her tank top left her collarbones exposed to the air. He solved the problem of her bare arms by laying his own sweater-clad limbs along her skin, wrapping her in her own arms, then in him.

"I feel it's only fair to warn you," he rumbled, speech that shook his chest and she could feel against her cheek, "that you are currently ensconsed in the most god-awfully wretched quilt man has ever seen." She laughed delightedly, and then immediately began to whine a little, because now she was curious.

"No no," he admonished sternly. "Your eyes need a rest, and to look at this abomination… Well, in your state, you'd never see again." He tilted her face up and looked suspiciously at her eyelids to see if she'd rebel, and when she didn't he dropped two quick kisses on her eyebrows, then tucked her under his chin again.

Mina chuckled; he reminded her of nothing so much as a mother hen at these times, when she allowed him to care for her entirely. Before him, she'd have been fine alone in a dark room, just given a little time to adjust and think. But ever since he had appeared, he had taken this element of their work over entirely.

And she had to admit that she looked forward to this – the moment on a job when they began collaboration again, after she'd done what he helpfully called "the heavy lifting". And for some reason, the pain left more swiftly when he was there to chase it away.

"So," she murmured.

Aled nodded above her, recognizing her cue to begin. "So."

"It's not a closed circuit." She felt as though the energy patterns were burned onto the inside of her eyelids; even with her eyes shut tight, the sequence replayed itself so many times that she knew it by heart.

She paused, and felt Aled hesitate. Occasionally, she needed him to ask series of questions, to draw the patterns out of her own mind. But this one she could tell straight, and plunged into it immediately.

"Dawn is drawing off of Buffy; it's a constant bleed, I don't think Buffy even notices that it's happening, what with the amount of energy she expends on a regular basis. But in the long run, it's certainly more than Buffy can bear to lose. I think that connection is intentional, though it looks… crafted. And that influx is pooling in Dawn, but it's only a temporary dam, so…"

"It bursts," Aled put in grimly.

"I think so; I think it has to, somehow." Mina brought her hand up to her temple, massaging briefly. "But when the dam bursts, it's not just spillover; it's feedback, too. That side of her circuit IS closed, but in a very bad way for Dawn. She's sending out good…"

"…and getting back bad. Right." Aled looked broodingly into the distance, his brow furrowed in concentration. They sat in silence for a few moments, both turning the problem over in their minds.

Very quietly, Aled ventured a question.

"Do you think we can mend it? Any of it?"

He trusted her so much, to make this decision. She knew his pride in her, his faith in her abilities, the love he gave so selflessly; but this trust, she thought, meant the most to her. Because it was here when he placed himself in her hands, and believed that she would make the right decision for the both of them.

"I think we can." Mina opened her eyes hesitantly, then wider, relieved that the dusk was now dim enough for her eyes to cope. She turned to Aled, searching his face for doubt – it wasn't there. "Yes, we can. We'll have to ask them both how much they want to attempt, and part of it might be a bit of a gamble, but… We can stop her dying. At least for a little longer."

She was so tired, Aled could see. She'd once described her work as staring directly into the sun for hours on end, and the intense pain that followed; he'd tried holding his gaze on the sun the next day and had to duck away within seconds, his head throbbing and eyes watering, black splotches weaving in his vision for the rest of the day. He didn't know how she did it.

So he pulled her towards him once more, allowing her to close her eyes and sink into him. "Then we'll both start working the equations, but later. Now, love, rest."

She did. His cotton sweater smelled of spice and his scent, and the low whisper of his voice lilted his favorite nonsense litany as she dropped into a light doze: "Mina, Mina, Mina mine. My Mina, mia Mi, my own."

…


End file.
